


Relief

by thingsbaker



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), briefly Ant-Man, but seriously briefly, like you don't need to have seen anything except the trailer
Genre: F/M, M/M, Steve!whump, hurt/comfort Steve, maybe PTSD, mentions of suicidal thoughts/tendencies, post-Ant-Man, post-AoU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-12 01:19:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 92,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4459757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thingsbaker/pseuds/thingsbaker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a raid leaves Steve without his serum strength -- and with many of his old ailments attacking his new body -- he's left to figure out how he can lead The Avengers when he can't, actually, leave the building.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know Steve-loses-his-super-strength is basically a fandom trope by now, but I couldn't resist taking a crack at it despite many, many other good examples. Also, the world always needs more Steve/Sam, even if the majority of this is at best slow-burn Steve/Sam.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Wow,” Sam said, leaning back in his chair. No one was eating anymore. “So you’re just, like --”  
> “Helpless?” Steve said, trying for a smile, and Sam shook his head.  
> “I was gonna say ‘normal.’”  
> “Feels worse than normal,” Steve admitted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of throwing up!

They were on a simple sweep-up mission: Drop in, clean up, get out (with any Hydra operatives they found in tow). Hydra was pretty much non-existent these days, but the pieces left had formed into dangerous splinters around the war tech that had been left behind. The Avengers had some personal interest in making sure that tech didn't stay in the wrong hands, so the team had about one of these sweeps week. They were two-person jobs, usually. The intel kept shifting, but mostly, Hydra’s old guard found safe houses and stayed there, awaiting instructions that would likely never come. Piece of cake. 

Steve was up in the rotation, and the operation looked just fine for his skill set. They weren’t picking up much serious tech, so Vision wasn’t an obvious choice, and they only counted about five people, maybe six, in the whole place, with no known crazies, so Wanda could stay behind. She’d been out on the last sweep with Natasha, anyway, so she deserved a rest. Colonel Rhodes was on assignment for the actual military at the moment, which was an excuse even Steve couldn’t argue with, so that had left him and Sam to do the sweep. Sam said he didn’t mind. The site was remote, anyway, so it would be nice to have air recon before they barged through the front doors. 

“Clear from up here, Cap,” Sam said, and Steve only knew he’d landed from the sound over their headsets. Stark had set them all up with great gear, before flying back to California, and even night vision goggles wouldn’t have picked up either of them arriving. They had almost no heat signatures; made almost no sound; and, between the two of them, carried enough war tech to lay out a small American city. 

“Then we got this,” Steve said, and he sprinted out of the trees, headed for the porch. 

This safe house was actually a house, a sturdy, rock-walled farmhouse, tucked into a glen carved from old-growth New England forest. Their last drone readout had shown five figures above ground and a modest basement, but no new construction. No satellites or signs of network capabilities. Certainly no modern lab facilities. These were supposed to be some of Hydra’s remaining lab techs, doubtlessly hiding out and waiting for orders, but they didn’t seem to be doing much. Steve expected some resistance, but only a little, and this was only an Avengers mission because the lab techs might have escaped with valuable Chitauri samples. 

They’d parked a van for the captives about two miles out. The plan was to bust in, hit them with the icers, and secure the scene; then, Sam would fly back to the van, drive through, and they’d load them up and drop them at a pre-arranged FBI pick up point. 

Things didn’t go exactly as planned. 

The front door broke with a single well-placed kick and swung into a modest, old-fashioned living room. Two of the techs startled up from watching television, and Steve pointed his icer at them at the same time he heard Sam crashing through the back door. “Get down on the ground,” he said in his clearest authority voice, and the two guys just stared for a moment. That wasn’t so unusual. What was strange was the noise behind him, and Steve swung his shield in anticipation and knocked out their brave colleague just as the guy was trying to get a jump on him with a loaded revolver. 

“Down on the ground,” Steve said, even as the colleague slumped to the floor. He heard Sam saying about the same thing from the back. 

His two guys knelt, slowly, awkwardly, one of them struggling around the bulk of his stomach. Their hands were shaking and they were already trying to explain. This was going even easier than Steve had thought it would, but that wasn’t a total surprise. The shield, the voice, the uniform -- they had an effect. The others called it “Capping,” as in, “Oh, so you Capped the guy, huh?” Practically, what it meant was that Hydra agents were just as likely to shoot at him as they were to try and surrender to him. Twice, some just-caught villain had asked for an autograph on the way to the FBI drop-off point. Now, Steve sat in the front of the van whenever it was safe. 

So these guys looked plenty Capped, and Steve stowed his shield and started asking questions. He heard Sam marching his guys from the back toward them, so he nodded to include him in the conversation, too. “Who told you about this place?” he asked. 

“We just got the message. Anonymous text. Like always,” the big-bellied guy said. 

”What’ve you got with you? Weapons? Lab specs?” Steve asked. 

”Just our wits and our charm,” the smaller one said. 

”So nothing,” Sam said. 

“Where are the others?” 

“No others,” the smaller guy said as Sam’s catches tumbled to the floor beside him. “Just us.” 

Steve caught the uneasy look in Big Belly’s eyes at that, and Sam said, “Yeah, right. He in the basement, or what?” 

“There’s no one!” the small guy said, in such a high-pitched, desperate voice that Steve almost rolled his eyes. 

“You got these guys? I’m gonna go round up No One,” Steve said, and Sam just nodded and pulled his zip-ties out. 

“So who wants to go first?” he asked, and Steve prowled down the hall. It had three doors: an empty bathroom, an empty (and seriously disgusting) kitchen, and the door to the basement. A dank, musty smell wafted up, but so did the sound of two feet trying to be quiet on an unfinished floor. Steve sighed, put the shield in front of him, and crept down. 

The stairs were old, wooden, and they had a concrete wall on one side and nothing but open dark air on the other. Steve shifted the shield so it blocked that open space, ears perked while his eyes rapidly adjusted to the dark. It actually wasn’t as dark as it should have been; a tiny window at the top of the room cast a weak ray of moonlight, and three tiny lights glowed in the corner. Steve could hear the almost subsonic hum of computers at rest. If they were using this damp basement as some kind of computer room, they were really dumber than he’d given them credit for. 

“Step into the open, and I won’t hurt you,” Steve said. Maybe this one would be as easy as his colleagues. 

And, in fact, he was: a few seconds later, as Steve’s foot planted firmly on the floor, he saw the last Hydra agent step forward into the moonbeam. She wore all black, though it looked more like a business suit than workout clothes, and she had both hands up in front of her, crossed, in a defensive posture. “Don’t shoot me,” she said, voice trembling. 

Steve sighed and threw his shield onto his back. “Ma’am, I’m not going to shoot you,” he said. 

“Good to know,” she said, and then she threw something at him. 

At first, Steve thought it was a dart; he caught it in his right hand, fingers closing around the barrel even as moonlight glinted off the sharp end. A needle. “What the --” he said, but even as he fired his icer, he felt a lancing pain in his neck. 

She hadn’t thrown just one; she’d thrown three. 

“— hell,” he finished, pulling the needle out even as the woman crumpled to the floor, posture stiff, iced. A third needle protruded from his forearm, and its plunger, like the one from his neck, was already down. Whatever was in those needles, it was already in his blood. 

Well, nice try, he thought. Sedatives didn’t seem to work on him, or at least not with anything like effectiveness. The psychotropic gas they’d booby-trapped one lab with had made him cough, sure, but he’d processed it out so quickly that it had only slowed him down. He dropped the full syringe he’d caught into a padded carrying case, tucked into his utility belt, and thought at least he’d have a treat for their own lab rats when they got back. Then he bent to pull the prone woman into his arms, preparing to carry her back upstairs. 

And -- it was kind of difficult. 

She wasn’t very big, maybe 100 pounds, and much shorter than Steve himself. Her clothes were just regular, work-day clothes, and her shoes -- he checked -- had no extra sandbags attached to their sturdy black heels, but when he lifted her, it was like carrying a 300-pound man. Now, even a 300-pound man wouldn’t have been beyond his capability, but it surprised him. He wondered if they shouldn’t call someone beyond the FBI to pick this lady up, just in case she had some powers. 

By the time he reached the living room, he was sweating. “Go all right?” Sam asked. The lab techs lay in a neat, wrapped row, spaced far enough from one another that they couldn’t make contact. Sam had even let them face the television. 

Steve laid his capture on the couch and nodded. He was faintly winded. “Found No One here in the basement,” he said, “and a couple of computers, too. Maybe three.” 

“Take ‘em with us or call ‘em in?” Sam asked. 

Steve shrugged. “Call ‘em in,” he said, not excited about sticking around much longer. Besides, last time he’d just yanked the cord out of a computer, he’d been treated to a five-minute Vision lecture. 

“I can do it from the rig,” Sam said. He wrapped the lady’s hands and feet and laid her next to their other villain on ice. “All set?” 

Steve nodded. He didn’t want to tell Sam about the syringes in front of the lab techs. “Grab the van. I’ll keep an eye out.” 

Once Sam left, Steve found a kitchen chair, dragged it to the place where the hallway met the living room, turned it around, and took a seat. He could see all six of the Hydra goons from here and had a solid sight line on the front and back doors. It would take Sam 3, maybe 4 minutes to get back to the van with his wings working, and another 5 to get back to them. That had seemed like nothing when they’d made the plan, but Steve felt every second of the wait that evening. He felt it in his faintly aching bones, in his throbbing head, and in his rising panic over the fact that whatever was in that needle was very clearly having some kind of effect. 

* * *

The drop off went smoothly enough. Steve ushered the six Hydra agents out of the back of their van, and Sam marched them over to a waiting, almost identical FBI vehicle. Then, while Sam chatted briefly with the FBI guy, giving them enough details that they could follow through but not so many that they’d get their before the Avengers’ own clean-up team came through, Steve walked quietly around to the hidden side of the van and threw up in the grass beside the parking lot. 

His head and stomach had been a mess from pretty much the moment they’d hit the road. He’d kept it in check only from old force of habit; before the serum, nearly every kind of transport had made him violently motion-sick, and he remembered just enough of his old coping mechanisms to make it through without vomiting on any of the Hydra guys. (It wasn’t that they didn’t deserve it; it was that Steve really didn’t want to clean out the van). 

He was still crouched by the van, taking slow, deep breaths, when Sam walked back around. “Whoa, dude,” he said, and Steve nodded without opening his eyes. “What the hell happened?” 

“I dunno,” he said, and he patted his belt, where the full syringe still lay, “but we better get back to HQ. Think I might need a medic visit.” 

“Before that, you need a hand up?” 

Steve didn’t want to admit it, but he took Sam’s offered hand anyway. He slumped into the passenger’s side of the van and felt grateful that this run, actually, hadn’t been too far from home. Just the thought of a Quinjet at the moment made his stomach do a painful loop-de-loop. 

The new Avengers facility was state of the art in nearly every way. They had crackerjack security, which included a vehicle scanner so thorough that one low-level agent had been stopped for trying to carry in a counterfeited purse. They had a runway that could handle the equivalent of a jumbo jetliner. They had hydroponic gardens that could provide a year’s worth of food, and a solar array hooked to batteries that could power the whole place for a full thirteen months. On the ground floor, they had the best training facilities that Steve had ever seen or even dreamed of, and right next to these, they had a clean, white-and-chrome medical wing that would have made other modern hospitals cry with envy. 

The med pod had a dedicated crew, on call twenty-four hours a day to provide in-house assistance and ready for global transport at only an hour’s notice. If an Avenger (current, former, or even potential) fell into harm’s way anywhere in the world, these were the medics they could count on. Steve was always glad they were around even if he never really wanted to be the subject of their attentions. 

That night, though, he thought he’d be genuinely glad to see them. By the time they made it back to the facility, he was shaking with chills and still so nauseated that he could only manage taking small sips of air. Sam had driven with one hand on his shoulder for half of the ride, trying to calm him, talking him through the worst of it, his voice a steady if unhelpful constant. He drove the van right up to the med pod’s emergency doors, and two blue-coated medics were by Steve’s side within seconds. He tumbled down out of the van and sank to his knees on the clean concrete, then threw up again. His head pounded, narrowing his world. 

“Captain Rogers?” 

“Sorry about the sidewalk,” he said, voice gravelly. 

“Sir, can you tell us what happened?” 

Steve looked at their shoes: gray, sturdy, regular old nurse’s shoes. It surprised him to see that Stark hadn’t designed them anything special. Maybe he hadn’t gotten around to it yet. He pulled the syringe out of his belt and held it up for one of the medics. “Got hit, twice, with that,” he said, and then watched one pair of gray shoes run away. 

Two black boots appeared before him just before Sam’s steady hand landed on his shoulder. “You OK, man?” 

“Ah, yeah,” Steve said, though Sam could probably feel him shaking. Fuck, he felt terrible. He hadn’t been this sick since -- before. 

“You need a wheelchair or anything?” “No,” Steve said. “I need just a minute.” 

A breeze fluttered over the sweaty skin at his back, and it felt wonderful. He reached back and hefted up the shield, then handed it over to Sam for safekeeping. With it gone, he felt lighter, and it occurred to him that he probably should get up, get inside, get out of his uniform and let the nice medics figure him out. The whole thing sounded perfectly logical, and yet, it also sounded so exhausting that Steve suddenly wasn’t sure whether he could do it. 

“Huh-uh,” Sam said, and his arm suddenly steadied Steve across the shoulders. He hadn’t realized it, but he’d been listing forward, about to land in his own puke. What a perfect ending to this lovely evening, Steve thought as Sam dragged him up to his feet. “You gotta go inside now. They’re gonna get you fixed up, all right?” 

“Yeah,” Steve said, leaning on Sam more than he wanted to as they limped into the med wing. He crashed down onto the first bed he saw, not even sure if it was meant for him. Someone started working his boots loose, and he meant to help, but he was out before he could even try. 

* * *

He woke up with Vision in his face. “Ah, good morning, Captain,” he said, backing away. “I thought I’d detected an increase in your heart rate.” 

Med pod, Steve thought, sitting up cautiously. He ached a little everywhere, but he didn’t feel so bad this morning. No nausea, at least. “What,” he said, and then cleared his sore throat and winced. Vision brought him a glass of water, and Steve sipped warily. “What’s going on?” 

“I’ve been told to let Dr. Garcia explain,” Vision said, voice too calm. “I’ve already let her know that you’re awake.” 

“Great,” Steve said, not sure if he meant it. He shifted in the bed, pleased to find that he was wearing his own shorts and a pair of pajama pants instead of hospital gear. He didn’t remember much past passing out the night before, though he had hazy memories of being conscious for some blood tests. The water tasted a little weird, and he realized they must have sedated him, somehow. All of his senses felt sluggish. It seemed like a bad sign. 

Dr. Garcia was maybe 40-something, with gray streaks running through her otherwise black hair and lines around her eyes and mouth. Steve liked this, how she looked like someone who had spent many days smiling, or with her forehead scrunched in thought, or with her mouth turned down in sympathy with a patient. She was the best on the medical team, and that morning, she smiled as she walked in the door. “How do you feel?” 

“Kind of rough,” Steve admitted, because there was no sense in lying to a doctor. “What was that stuff?” 

“That’s what I want to talk with you about,” she said, stepping up to the edge of the bed. 

Vision started to hover himself out of the room, which meant it must not be _that_ kind of news. He was new to being human-ish, and still awkward, but he wasn’t socially dumb enough to leave a guy alone to hear the worst. 

“Lay it on me,” Steve said. 

“Well, first, I want to tell you you’re doing fine. Absolutely fine. No damage to your organs, nervous system, none of that.” 

Steve nodded, slowly, glad that the world didn’t tilt as it had the night before. “So what am I still doing here?” 

She frowned, the lines disappearing as the corners of her mouth turned down. “You’ve been given a rather strong dose of a genomic disruption agent.” 

Steve rubbed his eyes. They felt gritty. “That doesn’t sound so good, Doc.” 

“It’s -- it’s not, but it’s also not life-threatening. At least, as far as we can tell.” 

He sighed, aware of a faint headache beginning at the base of his skull. “Just lay it out for me.” 

She did. The syringes had contained a kind of anti-serum. The effect had, so far, been to almost completely erase the effects of Erskine’s serum from Steve’s blood. His genes had altered, too; though his body looked the same, nearly everything within, all of the medical miracles that Erskine had achieved, were gone. “The anti-serum was basically a weapon built exactly for you, or someone like you,” Dr. Garcia said, apology thick in her voice. 

“Who’s like me?” Steve asked, trying to bring up a smile. After all, it wasn’t her fault. She was just the messenger. 

“It may be temporary.” He could hear the reluctance in her voice. “Some of your readings still show traces of the original serum, though in much, much lower levels than usual.” 

“How much lower?” 

Her dark eyes widened, just briefly, and he watched her consider whether to lie to him before she said, “Less than one percent of usual.” Maybe his face betrayed how shocking he found that, because she hurried on. “Just considering the fact that your assailant used multiple doses implies that they weren’t confident in their strength. And of course, we’ve already got the bio-science team going on ways to reverse the effect.” 

“Great,” Steve said. The small ache in his head had bloomed into something full and deep and nearly blinding. “Hurry up and wait, then, huh?” 

“I’m so sorry, Captain,” she said, resting one hand on his biceps. “Just -- for now, try to rest. Your body’s been through a significant trauma. If anyone could heal from this --” 

He nodded and waved her out of the room. A nurse came in after a few moments and offered him a painkiller, and that was when it started to really sink in. His senses didn’t feel dull because he’d been sedated: this was just how it felt to have normal, everyday human feelings again. 

* * *

The medication actually worked, which was a change from usual. It also made him drowsy, and the next time he woke up, Sam was there. “Hey. That’s the first time I’ve snuck up on you in a long time.” 

Steve frowned, sitting up slowly. He didn’t hurt much at the moment, at least, but he still felt like he was operating underwater. “They tell you what’s going on?” 

Sam shrugged and set down a pile of clothes. “Just said you’re cleared to leave whenever you want. Figured I’d see if you wanted a hand.” 

Steve sighed. His instinct was to tell no one; if there was a chance this would wear off, he should keep the effects to himself, probably, and trust in the doctor’s discretion. It certainly wouldn’t be good for team morale to know that their leader had been neutralized. 

Then again, it wasn’t going to be good for morale to find out their leader had been lying, either. “Is it lunch time?” Steve asked. 

“Just about. You hungry?” 

Not really, Steve thought, but he knew he should be. By this time of day, he’d usually consumed a couple thousand calories, just to keep his super-metabolism humming. Now, even a ham sandwich sounded like a challenge. 

Everything sounded like a challenge. 

“Starving,” Steve said, and Sam grinned. 

He dressed in a clean T-shirt and track pants and pulled on the sneakers Sam had picked out. The med wing felt too cold around him, and he wished for an extra shirt or a sweatshirt. Outside, though, it was a bright, summer day. He and Sam walked the long glass hallway that led from the med pod down to the communal lunch room, where lunch was catered for the team every weekday. Steve didn’t require the Avengers to eat together every day, but he had encouraged it by always taking his own lunch in the spacious, windowed dining space that adjoined the kitchen. The free grub didn’t hurt, either, particularly now that the kitchen had everyone’s preferences down. 

So, of course, everyone would be there today. 

They passed Vision talking to Natasha in the hallway, and Steve wondered what Vision knew about his condition. Probably, he’d figured it out from the medical readings and such. Would he have told Natasha already? Judging from the long, evaluative look she gave him as they walked by, she knew something was going on. There was no keeping a secret from Natasha. 

Steve sighed and took a seat at the head of the long lunch table, ignoring the sandwich platters on the cloth-covered tables at the back of the room. Wanda was already at the other end of the table, eating a salad and chatting with Colonel Rhodes. 

“Hey, I didn’t know you were back,” Sam said, sliding Steve a glass of iced tea. Steve nodded his thanks, waiting to hear Rhodes’s reply. Both Steve and Sam fought against the same instinct, which was to “sir” Colonel Rhodes every time they talked to him. Rhodes himself had told them to knock it off, and the agreed-upon hierarchy of the Avengers meant that Steve could pull rank on him, but it was still difficult. 

“Detached again,” Rhodes said. “Negotiations are going pretty well, so I’ve got some time off, sounds like.” 

“Nice of you to vacation with us here in old Shangri-la,” Steve said, but his voice didn’t sound right. Of course, everyone at the table would pick up on that. 

“I’ve heard you two had a difficult night,” Wanda said, spearing a new bite of greens. 

Sam sat down with his plate of sandwiches, and Steve heard the door open behind him. He turned to make sure both of his teammates had come in. “It was harder than we expected,” Steve said. “They gave up pretty quickly, but one of them got me with a couple syringes of stuff.” 

“What kind of stuff?” Natasha asked, voice soft, curious. She took a seat on Steve’s right, within touching distance, but she didn’t reach out. 

“Anti-serum,” Steve said. Next to him, Sam paused with his sandwich halfway to his mouth. 

“What does it do?” 

“It,” Steve started, then paused. “The doctor says, it’s basically deactivated all of the serum in my blood.” 

Wanda frowned. “What does this mean?” 

“I believe Captain Rogers is saying he’s lost his super-soldier abilities,” Vision said, when Steve found it hard to get the words out. 

“That’s about the shape of it.” He carefully met every eye around the table. 

“But it’s reversible,” Natasha said, now gently touching his forearm. 

“It might be,” Steve said, “or it might be temporary, but -- they’ve got no idea.” 

“Are you all right right now, though? Right now, are you ill?” Wanda asked. It meant something that she was leaning forward, clearly worried. They’d really come a long way as a team. 

Steve shrugged. “That obvious, huh? Yeah, I feel -- well, pretty bad.” His headache wouldn’t go away, and the open dining room felt chilly, almost drafty. “The doctor said I’d be under the weather for a while. Uh, while everything adjusts.” 

“Wow,” Sam said, leaning back in his chair. No one was eating anymore. “So you’re just, like --” 

“Helpless?” Steve said, trying for a smile, and Sam shook his head. 

“I was gonna say ‘normal.’” 

“Feels worse than normal,” Steve admitted. 

“I assure you, Captain, your physical health is still quite above average,” Vision said, and Steve almost laughed. 

“Thanks,” he said. “That should be reassuring, but I feel like shit.” 

Rhodes raised both eyebrows. “You want me to call Tony? See if his lab has anything?” 

Steve shrugged. “Not yet. Let’s give our team a day or two on it. It might pass on its own.” It didn’t sound any more reassuring coming out of his own mouth, but he really didn’t want to call Stark in yet. The entire point of Stark leaving the Avengers had been to give him a break from actually being on the team, and to give the team a chance to show they could function just fine without him. Steve still believed they could. “I’ve got some more tests to do with them tomorrow, so -- I’m afraid I won’t be out on the training field anytime soon. Sorry, guys.” 

“Well,” Rhodes said, “we should shake up the rotation for a while, anyway, since I’m back in the nest for a bit. I don’t mind picking up until you’ve got your feet under you.” 

Steve nodded his thanks, grateful that Rhodes had made that all conditional. He knew what he should do was bench himself indefinitely, but it was only the first day after the run in. They just needed to wait and see. 

A plate with two small sandwiches floated down before him, Vision barely touching the edge. “You will still need to eat,” he said, and Steve nodded. 

“You aren’t still, uh,” Sam said, touching his own stomach, and Steve shook his head. 

“Don’t think so,” he said, though the sandwiches still held little appeal. He picked one up and took a bite anyway because Vision was literally hovering, waiting for him to try it. “Thanks.” 

He made it through a surprisingly quiet lunch with the team, after which most of them peeled off to work on individual projects. Steve had tons of work he should be looking after, too, not least of which was a rundown on exactly what the clean-up team had found at the safe house the night before, but the longer he sat at the table, the more he realized he would need a nap before anything else that afternoon. 

“You need a hand?” Sam asked, and Steve rolled his eyes, pushing himself out of his chair. 

“I can make it back to my bunk.” 

Sam shrugged. “I’m headed that way anyway,” he said. “I might need a little crash time, too, after the way Natasha ran us around this morning.” 

“Wimps,” Natasha said as the door closed, and Sam grinned. 

”You better hurry up and get back to the field, or she’s gonna kill us all. Russian calisthenics, I tell you.” 

Steve nodded. The long hallway that led to the elevator had apparently expanded overnight; he didn’t remember it feeling like he was walking a couple of football fields. “Has this always been uphill?” he asked, embarrassed to be winded as they approached the elevator. 

“Both ways,” Sam agreed, jabbing the up button. The smooth, glass-cased elevator landed soundlessly before them, and they both strolled on. The elevator only allowed access to residential floors based on quick body recognition scans, and when Steve jabbed his floor, the gentle computer voice said, “I’m sorry, you’re not authorized for this level.” 

Sam, whose apartment was just across the hall, hit the button instead. “He’s with me,” he said, and the elevator began its ascent. 

“Great.” Steve sighed. He’d have to talk to the med staff about that, but it would wait until after his nap. Unless -- “So that probably means my room won’t unlock, huh?” 

“I’ll get Lowell up here,” Sam said, naming their in-house tech expert. “You can crash in mine while we wait.” 

“That’s OK,” Steve said, not wanting to put Sam out, and Sam snorted. 

“You’re barely on your feet, soldier,” he said. “I’m pretty sure my couch is going to be more comfortable than you falling on your ass in the hallway, no matter how nicely Stark decorated it.” He narrowed his eyes. “Unless you’re about to hurl again, and then --” 

“You’re safe,” Steve said. “Thanks.” 

All of the apartments for the Avengers were on the top few floors, though they had been split up by a giant open column that meant half of the team could access their rooms from one set of stairs or elevators, and the other half were on the far side. This was supposed to be a security measure, so that it would be harder to take out everyone while they slept, but Steve suspected it had also been an aesthetic decision. 

Sam and Steve shared a hall, along with two empty apartments for visitors (like Thor or Stark), while Natasha, Wanda, and Rhodes had rooms across the vent shaft. Sam’s apartment looked exactly like Steve’s, in layout. They walked into a short hallway, then sunk two steps into a broad, open living room with a gorgeous view of the surrounding grounds. Steve’s apartment looked over the fields and trees more directly than Sam’s, which had a view of the landing pad and the long wing of the major equipment storage hall. Sam had an L-shaped couch that helped block out the living room space, with the long edge facing a mounted flat-screen TV, and a pair of big arm chairs in rich brown leather. Steve had virtually the same furniture in his apartment, though Stark had special-ordered a navy blue fabric with a star-spangled design to use on every conceivable surface in Steve’s place. Steve hated him a little for it, but at least the chairs were comfortable. 

He sank into Sam’s couch, back to the window, and noticed again the major difference between his place and Sam’s: Sam’s rooms looked better. It wasn’t just the better covering choices, either. Sam had personalized his apartment, bringing up a car load full of stuff from his place in D.C. He had a non-Stark issued bookshelf in one corner, loaded half with textbooks -- a mixture of spy novels, biology textbooks, and flight engineering manuals -- and half with framed photos. Sam’s family was spread out over three states, but all in close proximity to D.C., and this was the furthest he’d lived from all of them since his tours. 

Steve had almost no personal effects in his apartment because he owned almost nothing. Most of the mementos he’d valued before the crash, before the ice, had been donated to the Smithsonian when he was presumed dead. It didn’t feel right to snatch them back, and he felt certain the museum was taking better care of them than Steve himself would. Peggy’s daughter had sent him her Christmas card last year, which had a family photo taken on a good day at the nursing home. Peggy was smiling, sitting up in a wheelchair in the gardens, and balancing her youngest grandchild in her lap. His dark hair came straight from her side, and Steve had hung the card on his refrigerator only long enough to realize that it made him sad every time he saw it. Now, it was tucked into a drawer along with a few of the better fan letters he’d received from grade schools across the country, to be remembered in hard times but not really suitable for daily review. 

Sam had photos and books. He had two poster-sized versions of album covers framed on the wall behind the couch. He had a jersey for the Baltimore Ravens that he wore only on game days, and a fancy set of speakers for his iPod, and a collection of cookware tucked into the generous cabinets of his kitchen. Steve counted among his personal effects a chin-up bar and some IKEA basics and a laptop, twelve isometric over-engineered undershirts that he could wear with his Captain America armor, and, in the cabinet over the sink, two souvenir shot glasses that Rhodes and Sam had brought back from their mission to Cuba. 

“Your apartment is so nice,” Steve said, head already falling back onto the cushion. 

“Uh-huh,” Sam said. “You’re asleep already, aren’t you?” 

“Basically.” Something soft thumped into Steve’s lap, and he opened his eyes long enough to recognize a pillow. “Thanks,” he said, and sat up long enough to untie his shoes and swing his legs up. The pillow felt gloriously soft and smelled of the same sweet-sterile laundry service soap that his own did, and that was the last thought Steve had before he was asleep. 

He woke with a dry mouth into the gray-brown light that stood in for real dark in their complex. All of the apartments had black-out curtains that skidded down with the faintest flick of a switch, but Steve could see the lights of the equipment garage twinkling blue below them. His nap must have lasted for hours. 

A blanket slid to the floor as he sat up, and he realized Sam must have covered him in his sleep. The thought was endearing and embarrassing, all at the same time. He folded the blanket back onto the couch’s corner and listened carefully, but it didn’t help. His senses weren’t acute enough anymore to hear the minute shifts of another person’s distant presence. The door to Sam’s bedroom was cracked open, and a faint glow came from within. So he was probably around. Steve felt vaguely guilty at the idea that maybe he’d kept Sam up; maybe he’d kept him from going back out for the afternoon threat assessment meeting. Then again, Steve usually led that meeting, so maybe the whole team had the day off. 

He stood and stretched, feeling the ache spread again across his shoulders and in a long, slow furl down his spine. It had been just long enough that the pain medication from the morning would have completely worn off, but he didn’t think he needed another dose. Sure, he still felt awful, but he didn’t have any acute injuries, nothing broken or even particularly bruised. It just hurt a little to stand, at the moment. Surely, that would pass. 

Sam’s kitchen was just off the living room, separated by a tall island with bar seating. Steve found a glass in one of his neatly organized cabinets and helped himself to water. Sam’s bedroom door opened while he was drinking, and the man himself walked out, snapping on a light as he crossed the room. “Hey man,” he said. “I thought I heard you.” 

Steve nodded, setting the water down with a sharp exhale. “Guess I slept through the threat meeting, huh?” 

“Guess you needed the rest,” Sam said, leaning against the island. “Maria’s up to date on everything, though, sounds like.” 

Steve rolled his eyes. “Of course she is.” Steve would trust the medical team with his life -- in fact, he was trusting them right now -- but he also often had to remind himself that they didn’t play by usual hospital rules when it came to confidential reporting. “Did you go?” 

Sam nodded. “I would’ve woken you, but… nah, I wasn’t going to wake you up. You looked just about dead. I’ve been that tired, and I still hate the bastard who woke me up.” 

That felt surprisingly accurate. Steve grinned. “So, self preservation, then?” 

“You bet,” he said. “You hungry?” 

Steve shrugged. He knew what awaited him in his own apartment: a selection of frozen meals, all of them better than the cardboard box dinners he’d discovered last summer at the grocery store but none of them particularly appealing. He usually ate something at his desk, working through paperwork and new threat analysis reports, then sacked out with another report scrolling past on his tablet. Recently, he’d been sneaking in a little bit of gym time at night, too, getting some reading done while packing on the miles, or sometimes just going for a jog around the grounds to clear his head. He’d done that the night before they’d crashed the safehouse, actually, and -- 

“Oh,” he said, out loud, and Sam raised an eyebrow. 

“Oh?” 

“I just realized why I feel so bad,” Steve said, rubbing his own neck. 

“Uh -- because you got shot with some wicked anti-serum?” 

“No. Well, yes,” Steve said, “but -- I think this is because I went for a long run, the day before we went on the raid.” 

“You… Oh,” Sam said, shaking his head. “When? How long is a long run?” 

“After dinner, around the bark trail,” Steve said, then added, “About, uh, four or five times,” and Sam laughed. 

“Five times. On the five-mile track. Of course you did. Is that track even lit at night?” 

“It was fine,” Steve said. “I don’t need much light. Or, well,” and then he looked away, staring at the empty glass in his hands. “Anyway. I bet that’s why I feel kind of worn out.” 

“Because you ran a marathon.” Sam nodded. “Well, it makes as much sense as anything else. Look, if you want it, there’s some extra pizza in the fridge. I had the kitchen make it earlier, in case you woke up for dinner.” 

“Yeah, sounds good,” Steve said, but he didn’t move for the fridge right away. He wasn’t too hungry, really, and he was just so damn tired. “Uh, you have any coffee?” 

“At this time of night?” 

Steve shrugged. “I’m up. I can’t run with the team, I ought to at least be caught up on the reports.” 

Sam rolled his eyes. “Why don’t you take a seat in that chair before you bust your head open on my counters, and I’ll tell you all about the meeting you missed over some cold pizza and maybe a Coke if I’ve got one laying around.” 

So over cold pepperoni and a bottle of Coca-Cola, Steve heard the summary of the afternoon meeting. Most of what they’d recovered from the house hadn’t been much help or surprise. The lab techs were all pretty low-level by both their own accounts and by the personnel records they’d hacked from the Hydra servers, except for the woman Steve had run into in the basement. She was, apparently, someone of interest, enough so that SHIELD would be taking over her interrogations. The computers in the basement had also held interesting information, as they’d been encrypted back-ups of some of Hydra’s lab data. “Like from work on the anti-serum?” Steve asked, pushing a half-slice of uneaten pizza away. 

“Could be,” Sam said. “They’re still working on the codes, I guess, but they can already tell it’s some kind of lab database. That’s seriously all you’re gonna eat?” 

Steve looked at the two slices still sitting on his plate. He’d made it through a slice and a half. “That was a big piece,” he said, and then, when Sam’s eyebrows shot up, he added, “I promise I’ll eat a big breakfast, Mom, OK?” 

“You don’t start eating, I’m gonna get my mom involved.” 

“If she brings one of those peach pies, I’m all for it.” 

Sam smiled. “Don’t tempt me, man. You do not want Mama Wilson on your case.” 

“That is probably true,” Steve said. “I feel like I’ve probably got enough on my plate right now.” He carried his empty bottle and half-full plate over to Sam’s sink, but Sam waved him off. 

“I got the dishes. Go rest up. You look like you need to crash again.” 

Steve shook his head. “Not yet, but -- yeah. I should get going.” He’d taken over the guy’s apartment for the whole day, so clearly, he needed to get back to his own place, his own things, and yet -- he didn’t really want to go. It surprised him, but maybe it shouldn’t have. When he was a kid, and sick, and feeling alone, he’d sometimes lingered too long at Bucky’s mother’s house, doing dishes in the kitchen and listening to Bucky’s sisters fight about who got a turn in the bathroom. Company helped, a little. 

But this wasn’t Brooklyn, and he wasn’t that kid. “G’night, Sam. Thanks for everything.” 

“Never a problem, man. You tell me if you need anything tonight.” 

Across the hall, Steve shook his head when he saw Lowell’s solution to his door problem: a rubber doorstop wedging his front door open. Well, as solutions went, this was one for which Steve could at least understand the full technological underpinnings. If only, he thought, the rest of his problems were so simple to fix.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my working theory about SHIELD is AOU- and Agents of SHIELD-based, but also a little generous: They still exist, and they're both a sister organization to and an umbrella over (at times) the Avengers. Just, y'know, FYI.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and the team start to figure out how bad it really is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for mentions of hospital treatment and breathing difficulties.

He woke up the next morning to the grating ring of his alarm clock. He hadn’t used the clock even once since he’d been living in the apartment. Usually, he could lay down at 12 or 1 and count on his system to wake him at 5 or 6, giving him enough time for a little morning calisthenics before he headed down to breakfast. (Whatever Sam’s complaints about Natasha’s training methods, Steve had found that he was, in fact, more flexible when he’d completed her suggested routine, and he stuck to it at least 5 days a week). Steve liked to be up early. Every once in a while, Fury drew him in to the Morning Brief, which was a high-level SHIELD meeting addressing international problems. Though he’d requested regular access to the meeting more than once, Fury kept putting him off, citing delicate non-Avengers information. 

That morning, however, Steve was in no danger of getting drawn into the meeting. The alarm rung first at 5:30, which was the time he’d set it for when he’d fallen into bed around 11; then it rang around at 6, and again at 6:30 before he finally, desperately silenced it. Quite a while after that, the pleasant, female computer voice that was this building’s version of JARVIS woke him by opening the window shades and reminding him that he was due in the med pod in 20 minutes. 

Steve was there almost right on time, hair still damp from the shower. It took a moment to find a good vein, but then a cheerful lab tech drew his blood into a startling number of vials while a nurse he recognized from the day before, Davis, asked him some routine questions. Blood draws didn’t bother him; what was strange was how light-headed he felt when he stood up. Davis put out one hand. “Do you want to just take a seat and wait for the doctor, Captain?” 

Steve started to say no, but the small shake of his head nearly knocked him to the floor. “I didn’t think you’d taken that much blood,” he said, easing back into the padded seat. 

“We didn’t, really,” Davis said. He was looking down at Steve’s hands, which were shaking on the arms of the chairs. “You feel all right?” 

“Light-headed,” Steve said, resting his head on the back of the seat. He swallowed hard. “Can I get a drink?” 

“Of course, sir,” he said. 

“You don’t hafta ‘sir’ me in the hospital,” Steve said, eyes already closed. The words felt thick in his mouth. “I’m pretty much under your command here.” 

“Then I definitely command you to stay put.” 

A moment later, a cool glass was pressed into his hand, and Steve sat up enough to sip it. The world had a faint greenish edge when he opened his eyes. Davis and another nurse hovered near his chair, and he did need a little help getting the cup to his lips. 

“I ran a marathon,” he told them. “Two nights ago.” 

“Oh,” Davis said. “Well, that would explain the dehydration. I’ll let Dr. Garcia know.” 

“Thanks,” Steve said, and he lay his head back onto the chair. 

He wasn’t really sure whether he passed out or slept for the next little bit; it felt like a bit of both, a gray fog that he floated through. When he heard the door open, he made himself open his eyes, and he felt steadier. “Captain Rogers, I hear you’re still not feeling so well,” Garcia said, sitting on a stool that she rolled up next to his chair. 

“Well, I’ve never been a great blood donor, Doc.” 

“Now I know that’s not true,” she said, but her smile was gentle and a little worried. She took his pulse, and a nurse took his blood pressure, which they reported was a little low. Steve kept sipping his water, and when he lifted his head again, he felt a little steadier. “So, what do you want to tell me?” he asked, watching Garcia. 

Her eyebrows drew down, but she still smiled. “We ran some tests from the blood we drew the last time you were here. I have someone evaluating your new samples even as we speak. I think we should talk about what we’re already seeing.” 

Steve started to nod, then thought the better of it. “All right.” 

“We don’t have much on your medical condition prior to receiving the serum,” Garcia said. “We have the Army files from your attempted enlistment physicals, of course, but the detailed notes that Dr. Erskine and his team made --” 

“Right,” Steve said. “What’s that got to do with this?” 

“The serum made cellular-level changes. Most of those haven’t been reversed. So, for instance, you’re taller than you used to be, and that’s not going to change.” 

“Good to know,” Steve said, but a worried knot was tightening in his stomach. “But some other things are, huh?” 

“In some ways, the serum changed your body completely. In others, it -- well, it acted as a barrier, a defense, against some pre-existing conditions. So, for instance, as a young man, you were diagnosed with anemia. Do you remember that?” 

“I know it was nearly 80 years ago to you,” Steve said, “but to me, it really wasn’t. So yeah, I remember.” He remembered. Anemia: tired all the time, paler than all of his friends. Asthma: the wheezing breath, the fear of springtime pollen. Diabetes. Heart murmur. Color-blindness. “My vision hasn’t changed, at least.” 

“I don’t think it will, actually. This anti-serum bonds with the new molecular structures the serum made in your bloodstream, but it can’t reverse physical changes. So I don’t think that will return. Some of your other ailments, though, may come back.” 

Steve sighed. A chill ran over his shoulders, and he hunched them in. “How soon?” 

“From the tests we’ve run, you’re already anemic again. Your insulin levels look fine, so far, at least.” 

“Great.” The only thing he could think of at the moment was that he’d become ineligible for military service again, and here he was, getting that news from another government-employed doctor. Life was one long series of bad jokes. “So, what now?” 

“Well, I don’t know what they did for you in the ‘40s, but we have some better options now.” She ran through a list of possible treatments for his anemia, each one tailored to the severity of his condition. They decided to start with time-release iron supplement capsules that he’d just need to take once or twice a day, and further monitoring of his blood work. “I’d like you to come by later this week for some additional tests,” she said. 

“Yeah, I figured,” Steve said, sitting up. He didn’t feel light-headed anymore, but he had a kind of after-effect headache. “Anything else?” 

“I’d put you on a restricted schedule if I had the authority,” she said, with a smile he might have called stern. “Since I don’t, I can only strongly advise that you limit your physical activity until we know for sure how regressive this agent will be.” 

“In other words, no marathons,” he said. 

“In other words, no running,” she said, and Steve sighed again and stood up. 

“I’ll take it under advisement, Doctor. Thanks for your help.” 

“Come by any time, Captain, and particularly if you begin to feel worse.” 

He nodded and walked out, almost unsurprised to find Natasha waiting in the hallway. She tapped a few more characters into her phone, then slid it into the pocket of her standard all-black workout suit. “Chaperoning?” he asked. 

“I heard you were a big baby about your blood getting drawn, so I came down to get pics in case you passed out or something. You know what photos of Captain America crying like a little girl would bring me on the black market?” 

“A pretty rotten reference letter and no severance package?” 

She grinned and fell into step beside him. “You say the sweetest things.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“That’s not what I hear,” she said, shrugging, “but I know macho’s your thing, so run with it.” 

Steve rubbed one hand over his face, surprised to feel sweat at his hairline. He wondered what he looked like, and decided it probably didn’t matter. Natasha would know the ins and outs of his whole medical file five minutes after she decided she wanted to know. How he looked didn’t matter at all. 

“I got you a get well present,” she said, and handed him a blank gray card on a black lanyard. 

“Uh, thanks?” 

“It’s an access card. Lowell said you were having some trouble with the elevators?” Steve sighed and slipped the lanyard into his pants pocket. “Apparently, it’s a serious pain in the ass to reprogram them to recognize your ever-changing cellular structure or whatever, so he said you should carry that until everything’s back to normal.” 

“And if it doesn’t ever get back to normal?” 

“Then I’m sure he’ll adapt to the new normal,” she said as a pair of glass doors swung open in front of them. She gave him a quick once-over, pausing at an elevator bay. “Nap time?” 

“It’s barely 10 a.m.,” Steve said. “Shouldn’t you be leading training, anyway?” 

“What do you think I’m doing right now?” She checked her wristband, which looked like a watch but was actually some kind of Stark-tech that tracked everyone’s movements. “You wanna come to the finish line?” 

Steve did, even though he still felt a little weak from the blood draw. He followed Natasha down to the track. They had a number of outdoor training spaces here, but this one was reserved for the Avengers and their guests, only. Even though everyone at this facility was on the same team, they needed a space where they could workout, train, and test new equipment and procedures without any prying eyes. This track had a surface they could control electronically, increasing or decreasing the friction to simulate different terrain. Stark was working on a model that would imitate elevation, too. 

Steve watched Sam and Rhodes rounding the last bend. “Where’s everyone else?” 

“Wanda’s in the forest with Vision,” Natasha said. That made sense. They often paired the two of them because Wanda’s mental gifts had almost no effect on Vision, which meant she had to work harder to overcome or outwit him. It was good practice for future missions, and it made her work physically in a way that Steve thought necessary to her development. Vision, on the other hand, could use Wanda as a sounding board for his questions about human nature and motivation. Since his major human interaction had been with Tony Stark before he took up this body, Steve figured he needed as much exposure to multiple minds as they could provide (though, really, he was well ahead of them all in understanding the way a megalomaniac mind worked). 

Sam and Rhodes crossed the finish line as Natasha yelled at them. “Too slow, boys. I bet Grandpa here could beat that time, even without his special sauce.” 

Sam had his hands on his knees, panting, and Rhodes flopped out onto the grass. “I haven’t trained like this since the Academy,” Rhodes said. “And I’m a little older now.” 

“Yeah? Too many years of younger guys getting your coffee, sir?” Sam said, and Rhodes laughed. 

They both looked exhausted, but happy, and Steve knew that feeling. He knew it so well. He could remember, in fact, the first time he’d really felt that, in this broader, taller, stronger body, the way that physical exertion could mean exhilaration instead of pain and dread. As a kid, he’d charged into every activity his friends had tried, only to be sidelined within moments by a caught breath, a stabbing side stitch, a swirl of black across his vision. He’d never let the ailments keep him from trying, but it had been a matter of pride. Until he’d been well, he’d never understood that his friends played their games and ran their races because the challenge could be fun. 

“You cleared for training today?” Sam asked, wiping sweat from his brow. 

Steve remembered the doctor’s warning. He squinted out at the track. “Can’t do much running,” he said, “but if you guys have some weight room time coming up…” 

Sam laughed as Natasha said, “Oh, I think we’ve all got some weights coming up.” 

“Uncle,” Rhodes said, but he was smiling, too. 

The weight room at the Avengers facility was as outrageously well equipped as every other aspect, but having trained there for months now, Steve barely noticed it. They each had a corner with personalized equipment. That saved the team from having to reset the machines to their own training requirements, but it also made it possible for them to all be working out more or less at the same time. Vision didn’t require the same kind of physical conditioning that everyone else did, but he sometimes came along to act as a spotter. 

This was one of those afternoons, which meant the entire team was together. Sam worked with headphones in, usually, but sometimes, Natasha or Wanda convinced him to put his music on over the impressive sound system. Steve liked these days best of all; Sam had great taste in music, and Steve usually learned something from what they heard. Plus, concentrating on the music let him complete more reps than usual. 

That afternoon, though, even with Sam’s music rolling through, Steve approached his workout section with some trepidation. The doctor had said his physical characteristics wouldn’t automatically go away, but he already knew that meant only that his muscles were still present. It didn’t mean that the superior, almost inhuman strength that he’d grown used to or the rapid healing and consequent endurance he relied upon were still available. 

Well, nothing for it but to try, he reasoned, and lay down on the weights bench. His hands were wrapped, today, to make the grip easier; some days, he didn’t even bother because scraped palms would be healed by dinner. As he gripped the weight bar, though, he was glad for the extra protection because his palms were sweating before he’d even lifted. 

“Would you like a spotter, Captain?” Vision asked, voice so quiet that possibly no one else would have heard it, if they weren’t all observing (while trying to look like they weren’t observing) anyway. 

“Probably a good idea,” he said, and then he got started. 

He’d picked weights equal to about two-thirds of his usual lift out of deference to the doctor’s orders. Relief flooded through him, almost a physically cooling feeling, as he was able to get the bar straight up and back without much strain. He did ten reps, then rested, then did ten more. In the background, he could hear the clatter and clang of the others’ machines going, and he knew that meant they’d had their curiosity satisfied enough to go back to paying attention to themselves. As he heard Natasha calling out counts for Wanda, he said, quietly, to Vision, “Let’s add a little more, OK?” 

“Of course.” Vision added two twenties, and Steve did ten reps with a little more strain. All right, so, that was less than his usual, but through the headache and the marathon recovery and the blood work that morning, it wasn’t so bad. He did two more sets and wanted to add another twenty, but Vision said, “Perhaps it would be more prudent to move on to a different muscle group, sir.” 

Oh. Good point. He’d probably be sore as hell the next day, and that wasn’t a feeling he’d had in a long time. Still, there was at least one more thing he needed to try. “You mind spotting me in the training simulator for a bit?” 

“Not at all.” 

So he got up, ignoring a brief wave of light-headedness, and waved to the team to let them know he was fine. After a quick stop at his locker, Steve and Vision rode the secure elevator down to the Training Simulator, which took up an entire floor. The room itself wasn’t much to look at, but the beyond state-of-the-air computers that whirred behind every blank surface could turn the space into just about any type of training scenario they could imagine. “What set up would you like, sir?” 

“Normal targets,” Steve said, slotting the shield into its place on his back. It bothered him, already, that the shield felt different in his hands: heavier, thicker. The blue-black walls shimmered, then vanished into gray-and-white, simulating a gymnasium, which was Steve’s preferred workout space. At the end of the long, narrow room, three pedestals rose, each holding a small, square box. This was his usual warm-up, slinging the shield at these easy stationary targets and waiting for its return. The boxes simulated concrete, hard enough to crack upon impact and to send the shield spinning back with significant but non-lethal force. 

His first throw was off. That happened. Bad days, late nights, sometimes just thinking too hard about something else would throw his balance off just a bit. 

Vision threw it back to him, and Steve staggered as he caught it. The shield itself was light and stopped instantly at his touch, like always, but the force felt different. They tried four or five more throws, each with a similar result. Steve could still throw the shield, but not as far, and his accuracy was fifty-fifty. Catching it, even when he tried ricocheting off the wall, was harder, too, his reaction time measurably slowed. The shield slipped slightly in his hands before stopping, and on the last throw, it broke the skin, leaving a slice across his palm. 

“I could design new training regimens, if you’d like, to match with your current strength and reaction times,” Vision said. 

Steve appreciated, for once, how much Vision sounded like a computer because he felt a little less shame as he said, “I guess we might have to do that.” He wrapped a clean bandage around his hand and wondered how long it would take to heal. That was a question he hadn’t struggled with in a long time. “Tomorrow?” he said. 

“Of course, Captain.” 

He didn’t ask Vision not to tell anyone, partly because he knew he wouldn’t, and partly because it felt wrong to keep this a secret from his team. He surveyed their training results, after all. 

Lunch went well, at least. They had a variety of pastas that day, and Steve actually had a bit of an appetite. He still didn’t fill his gigantic bowl, as he would’ve on a normal day, but he did at least get an approving nod from Sam when he cleaned his plate. “You might even deserve dessert,” Sam said. 

Natasha said, “Coming from anyone else, that would be a line.” She grinned, and Sam said, “Now, how do you know it wasn’t a line?” and then laughed when Natasha looked, briefly, surprised. She didn’t know anything about what had happened between them on their road trip before Ultron, and Steve felt more proud of that secrecy than, perhaps, he should have. 

The rest of the day was tied up in meetings. Most of the team spent the afternoons working on their own projects or resting. Steve participated in SHIELD meetings. This was one of his conditions for coming back to their facility, and it made him feel a bit better, though he still didn’t believe there were no secrets among them. That afternoon, he had equipment and supply meetings and status of training meetings in the afternoon, then a confidential secure video-line check-in with Nick Fury and Maria Hill over dinner, followed by an all-hands threat assessment meeting. Hill appeared by video in their long conference room. Usually, the full team attended threat assessments. The glass walls turned opaque, as if to physically remind everyone that this was confidential stuff. 

“We’re still having trouble decrypting the hard drives you collected,” Hill said, and Steve looked up and nearly hit himself in the forehead. This was obvious. 

“Vision, would you mind --?” 

“Not at all, sir,” he said. “I’ve sent the lab directions for networking the machines so that I can access them.” 

“Great.” So that would be finished by tomorrow. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of that immediately. “What about the techs themselves, Hill? I heard the woman who hit me might be of some value.” 

“Yeah, she might have been,” Hill said, her entire face betraying annoyance. “In fact, we think she’s worked with a number of the big bads we’ve been chasing, which is probably why she had a cyanide capsule. One of the FBI guys hinted that she might be looking at life in prison, and she crunched it immediately.” 

“Well, shit,” Rhodes said, and Steve echoed that assessment. “Guess we won’t be getting any intel from her.” 

“What about the others? They seemed like chatty guys,” Sam said, leaning forward slightly. He rested his hand on Steve’s shoulder to get into the camera’s line of sight more clearly, or maybe because Steve was clenching his fists over the FBI’s oversight. 

“Yeah, they’re happy to talk about everything they know, which is basically nothing,” Hill said. “We’re still working with them, but I think they’re a dead end in terms of actionable intelligence or anything to reverse those shots.” 

“You’re full of good news, as always,” Steve said. 

“Well, the scene out east is a little better,” she said, and they pivoted to talking about the latest threat from an underground, home-grown terror cell that definitely had it out for SHIELD. and the Avengers. They were mostly a nuisance so far, but they’d broken into a government lab earlier in the month and landed on the official watch list. Sam squeezed his shoulder, then backed off into his seat again. 

As the conversation wound on, Steve managed to stay engaged. He had to. Scheduling the team, choosing who would go and when and how and, sometimes, why, that was all on his shoulders, even if he wouldn’t be riding along. Hill was a valuable ally, and Natasha was the closest thing he had to a co-captain, but Hill was at least a few thousand miles away (he never knew exactly where she was checking in from) and Natasha wasn’t interested in strategic military planning. (Espionage, sure, but not the boots-on-the-ground stuff). So these decisions fell to him. 

It was a responsibility he respected, even if he didn’t relish it. He owed his full attention to the men and women who would risk their lives every time they stepped out of these protected doors. Some of them would be his teammates, the Avengers; some of them would be SHIELD’s rank-and-file agents. Steve understood that every time he decided a mission wasn’t suitable for the Avengers, it meant putting more regular agents into harm’s way; every time he thought they might need back up, the same calculus with human life became involved. That evening, even as his last meeting wrapped up, he felt the weight more heavily than usual, knowing that he matched those agents’ vulnerability with his own. 

He had the plans for the next couple of proposed raids swirling in his head as he boarded the elevator up to his apartment, and he knew even as he stepped on that it was too much information. He’d never sleep, worrying about these plans, not without a chance to process. This was usually when he’d do a head-clearing run, physically and mentally tiring himself until he was ready for sleep. 

The doctor’s suggestion had been clear, though, and if he was honest, Steve didn’t feel up to a run at the moment. Maybe, though, just a little night air would help. She hadn’t said he couldn’t go for a stroll. That was hardly strenuous. 

So he went back to his quarters to change into a fresh workout shirt and pants because his pair from earlier in the day was actually, for once, sweated through, and he pulled a sweatshirt on over the top, then he tugged on his sneakers. He made it all the way to the elevator before he realized he’d left the access card in the pocket of his old pants, so now the elevator wouldn’t let him on, and he couldn’t get back into his apartment. Perfect. 

“Hey, Sam, sorry to bother you,” he said, standing outside of his door. 

“No bother, man, what’s up?” Sam had changed already, too, into a new SHIELD-branded navy-blue T-shirt and track shorts. They were the only two on the team who seemed to regularly wear the uniform apparel. “You come to finish that pizza?” 

He left the door open and walked back inside. Steve could see he had his laptop sitting on the kitchen counter and a beer propped next to it. Maybe he’d been about to video call with his family or something, or settle down with a movie. A nice night in, and Steve was interrupting. 

“Uh, actually, I’m locked out again,” Steve said, feeling a blush spread over his face. 

“From anyone else, that’d be a line,” Sam said, raising an eyebrow, and Steve’s face grew warmer. “Couch is still free. You want me to buzz Lowell?” 

“Nah, I just -- I can get one of the security guys to do it, but -- I was gonna go for a walk, actually, and the elevator won’t even let me on.” He shrugged. “Just, long day, you know?” 

“I do know.” Sam nodded, took a sip of the beer, and then said, “Let me just grab my shoes, all right?” 

“OK. Thanks.” 

Sam appeared from his bedroom wearing an Air Force sweatshirt and carrying his shoes. He stopped to jam them on, then said, “Let’s go.” It surprised Steve when Sam got on the elevator, too, but maybe it shouldn’t have. He’d been guarded -- watched, babysat -- all day. It was probably too much to hope for a solo walk. 

Yet Sam wasn’t bad company. They worked well together, got along well. He was, if Steve was being honest, the first friend he’d made outside of his Captain America duties since waking up from the ice. Oh, he had other friends, but they came from the job. Sam had been a friend before he’d been a colleague, and Steve valued that. He’d barely let himself get close to anyone in the last few years. Sam was an exception. 

They walked out a door at the base of the tower that led toward the track, but Steve shook his head and pointed toward the forest. They had a bark trail leading toward a small lake. A lap was five miles. The walk just to the lake and back would be about a mile, and that sounded about right for the evening. 

Steve set off at a comfortable pace, strolling, enjoying the cool breeze. It wasn’t quiet; the building itself practically roared, what with all of the air-cooled spaces within, but the treeline wasn’t too far, and the moonlit night somehow dampened the noise and made Steve feel less like he was on base. 

“Yeah, I know, it’s weird, right? Like it feels military, but -- I never had a room so good in the Air Force,” Sam said. 

“Even the bunks aren’t bad,” Steve said. He’d reviewed the rooms for the trainee agents when they’d first arrived at the place, just after he’d been shown his palatial condo in the sky. Every recruit had his or her own space, here, with a comfortable bed and a window. It was a far cry better than Steve’s own initial Army experience, at least, and now the bunks came with high-speed WiFi. 

“Hm. Food’s better, too.” 

Steve agreed. They chatted aimlessly as they walked to the lake. It was nice, unforced conversation, some of it work-related, some of it not, all tinged with that half-laugh that Sam seemed to frequently have in his tone, where he couldn’t quite believe they were wherever they were. Steve had woken up just about every morning since becoming Captain America feeling grateful and surprised to be where he was, and Sam was one of the only other people he knew who seemed to feel the same way. 

“I heard you’re testing new wings,” he said as they came within view of the lake. The air here was thicker, moist, fragrant from the trees and new leaves beginning to bud. Steve drew in a breath too quickly and coughed, laughing at himself for overdoing even his own breathing. 

“Yeah,” Sam said. “Minor upgrades. Better armor, a little bit of weight redistribution. I’m gonna give it a test run tomorrow if the weather holds.” 

“Not good in the rain?” 

“Aw, I can fly through anything, you know that, I just don’t always want to come home sopping wet.” He grinned, a flash of white in darkness. Steve smiled back, thinking briefly of the last time he’d seen Sam fly. Not the night with the house; he hadn’t seen anything in the dark, then. No, he’d watched Sam do a test run in broad daylight over their practice track, doing skim-and-dive exercises to pick someone up off of the ground. At the end of the practice, Sam had done one extra dive and grabbed Steve by the strong cross braces on the back of his uniform, and they’d done one lap around the track, both of them laughing, before Sam had set him back down. 

Flying with Sam was one of the only times that Steve felt any real envy for his teammates’ abilities. 

They paused at the edge of the lake, having climbed the last twenty feet up a sharp incline so they could stand on an outcropping overlooking the glass-smooth water. Steve was winded from the climb, and the rush of his breath roared out into the silence between them. 

“So, what’s knocking around in your head this fine evening, anyway?” Sam said. “Must be something big, keep you out of bed when you’ve been through this day.” 

Steve shrugged. “All of it.” 

“All of it, like the stuff in those meetings, or all of it, like, you got some news from the doctor today?” 

“All of it,” Steve confirmed. He turned from the water, walking slowly down the slope. Sam stayed at his side, not talking, hands in his pockets. “The strategy meetings… sometimes, there’s a lot to take in.” 

“You’re telling me,” Sam said, “and I’m not even the guy in charge.” 

“You could be, someday.” Sam scoffed. “I don’t mean -- that wasn’t some morbid promise,” Steve said, laughing through another little cough. 

“Oh, you just meant, if you decide to take your generous, inflation-adjusted pension and retire to Great Northern Bumfuck, I could maybe hide behind your shield and mask for a few weeks until America goes, _holy shit, he’s black?_ ” 

“Right,” Steve said. “You’d be great. Though I’m never going anywhere without that shield.” 

Sam just laughed and shook his head. Steve smiled back. He’d understood for a few months now that the chemistry between the two of them was different, slightly more charged, than, say, the friendly sparks that underlay Natasha’s flirting. They’d even talked about it, or around it, on a long drive across a couple of flat states, and the conclusion Steve had drawn was firm: This attraction, this chemistry, it didn’t matter. Steve was, sometimes, Sam’s commanding officer, and beyond that, he was Captain America. His freedom to pursue romance with anyone was curtailed by the fact that the slightest whisper of interest from the leader of the Avengers would probably spell targeting and painful death for other party. Even with someone as capable as Sam, the risk wasn’t worth it. 

So he smiled back but kept walking instead of pausing to admire the gleam of Sam’s smile in the moonlight. He was so out of practice with flirting anyway that it was possible he’d been reading those signs wrong. Wouldn’t that be a clusterfuck? he thought. He’d actually sat through the S.H.I.E.L.D. Presentation on sexual harassment back before the Chitauri invasion. It had been more enlightening about the state of modern gender relations than Steve would have guessed. Sometimes, when he needed a laugh, he tried to picture Tony Stark watching the video. 

“You gonna be up for training tomorrow?” Sam asked. 

“Gonna try,” Steve said, or tried to. His breath was coming too quickly, now, and he paused at the edge of the tree line. He was way too short of breath for an easy stroll. Every new breath felt like a gasp. 

“Steve?” Sam said, grabbing his biceps. “You all right?” 

Steve nodded, rubbing one hand against the base of his throat, where it felt like something was blocking his airway. “Asthma,” he said, hearing the wheeze on the end of his own breath.  “Guess… it’s back.” 

“Oh no. No no, OK. I got you. Let’s get you to the emergency pod, all right?” 

“Yeah,” Steve said, filled with regret. He couldn’t just have one nice walk? “Let’s go.” 

The attack grew worse as they walked on, and by the time they reached the facility, Steve felt light-headed just over the fight for each breath. His throat and chest were painfully tight, but even with his muscles straining, he couldn't get enough air. He felt desperate for it. Air pooled in his throat, hissing even after he’d stopped trying to suck it in. He was practically clinging to Sam just to stay upright, and as they approached the building, his legs gave out. Steve started to sink to his knees, but Sam cursed, then scooped him up. 

“Gonna need a breathing treatment,” Sam panted, rushing into the med wing. 

They hooked him up with a mask and some foul-smelled medicated mist, hit him with a shot in the arm, and wouldn’t let him lay down. Someone cut through his shirt, and someone else fitted him with electronic monitors on his chest. His heart pounded machine-gun style, each beat somehow sending a new strike of pain across the straining muscles surrounding his lungs. Thunder boomed in his head, across his body, and he couldn’t tell if anyone else could hear it, whether it was the rush of the air that wouldn’t get into his lungs or the panicky final throbs of his brain before it shut down. 

Worse than all of that was the fear that he wasn’t going to ever catch his breath, that his throat was going to close completely, that the blackness would rush in no matter what. Nurses and doctors swirled around him, their motions furious, their voices sharp, and Steve’s breaths sounded like heavy sobs cutting through the beeps and prods and yells. 

Through it all, Sam was there, telling him he had to stay awake, had to stay with Sam, had to keep breathing. The panic in his voice was real and overlaid with the focused calm that all battlefield medics seemed to have down. 

“That’s it, that’s good," Sam said, when Steve was able to take something that approached a full breath. “You with us, again? You’re doing great, you just gotta stay at it.” 

“‘Kay, okay,” Steve managed, flailing out one hand to grip Sam’s. His chest hurt so, so much. “‘M here.” 

“Stay here,” Sam said, his eyes closing for just one moment, and Steve gave his hand a squeeze. “Just fucking stay here, man, all right?” 

“You don’t,” Steve said, every word coming out on a gasp, “get. The shield. Yet.” 

Sam laughed and wiped his hand over his face. “Yeah, well, get back to fighting shape, then let’s talk.” 

Steve wished he could spare the energy to smile. The mask stayed firmly in place. Cold air dragged through his throat, every breath costing him a little bit more. God, he just wanted to lay down. He shivered as another nurse took his right wrist between her hands, checking a pulse that the machines were reporting, anyway. 

And Steve looked around, then, into the falling quiet, and he understood just how terrified everyone else was, too. Here was Captain America, hunched up on an exam table, nearly dead on their watch. Here was their hero, brought down by a stupid goddamned asthma attack, his breath weak and loud and rattling. Here was the worst-case scenario. 

“Sam,” he said, trying to clear his throat, staring around at the nurses and orderlies who were trying not to stare right back. 

“Yeah, Cap,” Sam said, authority in his voice, resting one hand on Steve’s back, just between his shoulder blades, for a half-second. “Guys, if you’re not actively doing something medical, then we need the room cleared.” 

The staff started shuffling out, chastened and still, probably, afraid, and as the door closed, Steve shivered again. He turned and rested his forehead against Sam’s shoulder, allowing himself just a few seconds of weakness, of comfort, of the impossible. Sam’s hand rested again on his bare skin, a firm, solid grip, not afraid, and he said, “What do you need?” 

“Shirt,” Steve said, and Sam stripped off his own sweatshirt and handed it over. They managed to get it on around the monitors and the mask, Sam’s hands quick and sure with the medical equipment. He elevated the head of the bed, and Steve finally leaned back, the ache in his chest still so strong it felt like someone had stood there all afternoon. He was afraid to close his eyes. 

Sam drew the curtains across the exam room, then turned, arms crossed, and said, “What else can I do?” 

“Don’t want. To stay. Here,” Steve managed. He knew that was what they’d recommend, an overnight stay, observation, more blood tests. That all sounded about as comforting as being shot. 

Sam frowned. “I can —“ 

The door swung open. “What the fuck just happened?” 

Steve would have sighed, if he had the extra breath. As it was, he could barely drag his head up to look Fury in the eye. “Didn’t know. You were. Here.” 

“And I didn’t know my team captain had re-developed life-threatening asthma,” Fury said, “so I guess we’re even. Don’t even try to talk to me. Wilson, what the hell?” 

Sam said, “I don’t think he really knew he’d redeveloped it, either, until about an hour ago, so all due respect, maybe you and I can have this shouting match somewhere else?” 

But Steve got it, saw the look in Fury’s eye and realized it wasn’t just anger. “Nick. I’m fine.” 

“You don’t look fine,” he said, but he uncrossed his arms, just briefly, and Steve could see he was worried and maybe a little relieved. “You’re off field duty.” 

“Yeah.” Steve rested his head against the bed again. 

“Rhodes and I will cover," Sam said. “We talked about it after threat assessment today.” 

“Hm.” Fury glanced at the machines. “Don’t make me hear about this through the grapevine anymore, Cap, OK?” 

He stayed until the doctor came back through, or, well, both doctors, as Garcia had called their pulmonary specialist. They both agreed that he needed to be observed all night, but after Sam and Fury glared for a moment, they agreed to let him clear out of the hospital if he’d agree to wear a wristband monitor, if he’d keep a rescue inhaler nearby, and if someone would stay with him. 

“If it gets me out of Natasha’s training tomorrow morning, I’m down,” Sam said, winking as he helped Steve sit up. 

“That’s why I did this,” Steve said. “Just for you, buddy.” 

“Always willing to take one for the team, Rogers. That’s why I like you.” 

Fury had cleared out with the doctors, doubtlessly reviewing Steve’s entire medical file and making unreasonable demands about his progress. Steve didn’t really care. All he needed, right now, was a semi-comfortable, horizontal surface and a modicum of quiet. And maybe a blanket. 

They walked out slowly, with one of Sam’s hands steadying him at the elbow. Steve made himself look all of the med staff in the eye as they left, giving them a nod here and there to thank them for saving his life. He’d come back the next day, he told himself, and do a proper thank you, as soon as he was up to it. Maybe he’d wear the uniform and really Cap ‘em. 

Oh, who the hell was he kidding? The way things were going, he’d be seeing them all again real soon anyway. 

He leaned on the wall of the elevator as they rode up, then followed Sam down the hall. His own apartment had the door propped open again, and it surprised Steve when Sam pushed through that door. “We can — I can do the couch at your place,” Steve said. “At this rate, I could do the floor. And you probably want your own bed.” 

Sam shook his head. “I’m not gonna make you sleep on the couch. And I don’t plan to crash out here, either. This fabric would likely give me nightmares,” he said, poking at the star-spangled chair. “It’s a big bed, and if you relapse, you’ll probably be perfectly quiet and brave about it, so I’m gonna kip in with you.” 

Steve just nodded and staggered toward his bed. He’d made it that morning, just like always, and the room was neat around it. Nothing to see here, he thought, taking a seat on the edge. He toed off his shoes and wondered whether to take off his running pants or just sleep in them. He was too cold to want to be down to his shorts. “There’s, uh, think there’s an extra pillow in the closet.” 

Sam shrugged. “I figured I’d go across and grab my stuff. Give you a minute to get ready.” Unspoken lay an offer of help if Steve needed it. He waved Sam away, then wondered if he did need a minute. He should get up and brush his teeth, probably, or make sure his alarm was set, or get a glass of water for the middle of the night. He should turn out the lights in the living room and pull the light-blocking curtains. He tipped over on his side, instead, and drew his legs up under the thin, warm blanket. The rescue inhaler and the single sheet of instructions for its use laid on his bedside stand. A faint ache thrummed in his chest at just the thought of another attack. 

He felt the bed dip just slightly when Sam climbed in, heard the thump of his back landing against the headboard. “She’s not gonna let you out of training,” he said, mostly just to let him know he was still awake. He had his back to Sam, still lying on his side. 

“I live in hope,” Sam said. “You need anything? Doctor Garcia said you could have some Tylenol if you needed it.” 

“I’m good.” 

“You’re shaking,” Sam said, quietly. 

Steve nodded. “Think it’s the fall off from the drugs.” 

“You been through this before?” 

“Yeah.” Steve rolled onto his back, slowly, his chest protesting the whole time. “Used to spend a lot of time in doctors’ offices. They’re nicer now.” 

“The offices or the doctors?” 

“Both,” he said. “You, uh. Everyone was pretty scared there, huh?” 

Sam blew out a quick breath. “You mean when you were turning blue and gasping like a fish out of water? Yeah, that wasn’t the best part of my day.” His eyes were closed. “My niece has asthma.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Thanks. It’s pretty mild. Still, it’s scary.” 

“It is.” Steve frowned. “Does she have a good inhaler?” 

“Oh, she’s got lots of them,” he said. “Her mom’s on top of it all.” 

Steve nodded. “My mom always kept good records, too, but after my dad -- she didn’t much like hospitals. Bucky used to come by sometimes, you know, and his mom was always, uh, she kept on me about things, and…” He hadn’t meant to say any of that, really, and he closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see Sam’s expression. Just another reminder of how empty and strange Captain America’s life used to be and might be again. Nothing to see here. “Anyway, thanks for sticking around tonight and being on watch overnight.” 

The blanket rustled, and then Steve felt Sam’s hand on his shoulder. “Anytime. I got your back, man, you know that?” 

Steve opened his eyes just long enough to look up. “I do. Thanks.” 

“Now get some sleep, or Natasha’s gonna kick my ass extra hard tomorrow.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A former Avenger drops in for a visit.

He slept well, but that didn’t really matter. The next day was hard. Natasha was pissed in the morning, when Steve finally managed to stagger into the team kitchen. There were bagels and cream cheese waiting, but he had eyes only for the black coffee in its giant silver urn. 

“— and, oh, I’ve got environmentally-triggered asthma, why don’t I go on a fucking walk in the forest in the middle of the night?” Natasha was saying. Steve had missed the first part, but he got the gist. 

“Settle down,” he said, taking his first sip. Modern coffee was so much better than the crap he used to drink. And the variety! Just the availability of cream was pretty staggering. Steve tried to think about that instead of Natasha’s burning gaze. “I’m fine.” 

She frowned. “That’s not really the point.” 

“What is the point, Natasha?” He took another sip, then held the cup close, keeping his voice low even though they had the kitchen to themselves. “You came over here to tell me you’re pissed that I almost died last night? Well, I’m kind of pissed about it, too.” 

“I’m pissed that it got that bad in the first place,” she said. “Garcia put you on restricted duty, and you still --” 

“She didn’t order me not to walk,” he said, voice rising in spite of himself. 

“Yeah, but I bet you weren’t supposed to be flinging your shield around yesterday.” 

“That didn’t trigger anything,” he said, though of course, he couldn’t be totally sure. Had he felt short of breath after yesterday’s session? He didn’t think so. 

Natasha stepped forward and put one hand on his forearm. “But you’re going to take it easy today.” 

It might have sounded like a question to anyone else, but Steve understood she wasn’t really asking. “Yeah,” he said. He rubbed one hand over his chest. Nearly every muscle in his body ached that morning. “I don’t think I could lift much today, anyway. Thought I might observe, and catch up on some paperwork.” 

“Good,” she said. 

He finished his coffee and filled the cup again. “Did you know Fury’s here?” 

“He was,” she said, dismissing his knowledge too easily. She picked up one of the power muffins that the bakery set out every morning. Steve thought they tasted like sand. “His Quinjet left around dawn.” 

“Huh.” Well, no chance he’d really know what that was about, though he’d probably ask Hill that afternoon, anyway. They’d been more upfront on Fury’s actions since the Triskelion collapse and SHIELD’s demolition, but Steve knew better than to hope that Fury would ever really be a transparent leader. 

He took his coffee and a bagel over to the conference room and pulled up a computer terminal in the air before him. His paperwork rarely involved paper, but it still took hours to get through it all. 

In fact, that occupied him until lunch, when Sam ducked in to see if he was going to join the team. He was wearing black cargo pants and a T-shirt with his aviators pushed up on his head, and Steve grinned. “Right, it’s flight test day, isn’t it?” 

“After lunch,” he said, smiling back. “I think it’s tacos today. You coming?” 

“You bet.” Steve shut down the computer with a wave and followed Sam to the dining room. No one said anything about his hospital trip the night before, but no one had to. Steve could tell they all knew, and while he knew he owed them an explanation, he decided it could wait. Maybe at dinner. 

So he kept Sam talking about the new wings, and as soon as the time came, he followed him to the launchpad on the top of the long hangar. Two engineers stood there, wearing Avengers-logo lab coats, and Sam’s backpack crouched between them. Steve, wearing his standard day-off white T-shirt and khaki pants, felt underdressed and out of place, slightly, but both engineers still saluted as they approached. 

“Just here to observe,” Steve said after putting them at ease. 

“Of course, sir.” One man offered him a headset, and he slipped the earpiece in. 

Sam started putting on his gear. The wind shear over the building made it hard to talk, so Steve just stood and watched. It was a nice day for flying: bright, clear, and just a little breezy, no signs of rain. Though it would likely warm up to be a nice spring day, on the roof, the wind made Steve wish for a jacket. 

“All right,” Sam said, checking one final strap, and then the engineers stood back. 

“Good flight,” Steve said, and Sam grinned. 

“It always is.” As many times as Steve had seen him do it, it still sent a thrill of instinctive terror up his spine to watch Sam step out into the open air. The wings spread out a moment later, and he rose rapidly on an updraft. When he turned hard to the left, Steve could see his face, set hard in concentration, paying attention to the wings. “Yeah,” he said. “I like the balance.” He swooped up, across, and then out over the training track. “Not sure what the weight change does for landing.” 

“Then eat a few less tacos,” Steve suggested, and Sam snorted. 

“Look who’s talking, Captain Carb-merica.” He skimmed over their heads, and Steve grinned. Sam in flight was a beautiful sight. On the ground, he looked like any regular, fit guy, but in the air, his lean build took on an edge of power, of danger. For a guy trained in pararescue, he looked threatening, and Steve was truly glad to have him on his team. 

“That heavy breathing better be over my fine form, Cap,” Sam said, and Steve looked away, swiftly, thinking for a moment that he’d been caught staring.   

“Oh, uh,” he said, realizing that he had, actually, been breathing a little quickly. The rushing air and the just plain vicarious excitement of seeing Sam fly had made him overlook that he’d become a little short of breath. He drew the rescue inhaler out of his pocket and realized the engineers were staring at him. He said, “I’m fine. I’m gonna head back in out of the wind, though. Keep going. They look great.” 

He pulled the earpiece out and handed it off to one of the engineers, assuring them all was well. Inside, he paused at the top of the stairwell and tried to remember what the nurse had told him. In the quiet space, he could hear a faint wheeze in his breathing. Deep breath out, then squeeze the inhaler while he drew in a breath, then try to hold it in for a 10-count. OK. He did two puffs and leaned back against the wall, waiting for his breathing to ease. While he stood there, he heard a door open below. A few moments later, Vision hovered before him. 

“My wristband?” Steve asked. 

Vision nodded. “Your heart rate is elevated and your pulse oximeter sounded an early warning.” 

Steve nodded. “I used my inhaler. I think it’s getting better.” 

“Nevertheless, I really must insist you visit the medical pod.” 

Steve frowned, but he thought of Natasha’s lecture, Fury’s concern, Sam’s calm fear the night before. “Lead the way.” 

They took the stairs to the next landing, then the elevator to the medical floor. A medic waited there with a wheelchair, but Steve waved him off. “I feel OK,” he insisted, walking through the double doors, back toward the exam room he was starting to think of as his own. He kept his hands in his pockets to hide how they had begun to shake. 

“I’m glad to hear that, sir.” 

“Just can’t stay away, can you, Captain?” Garcia said as she walked in, grinning in a wide, false way. 

“What can I say? I want to get the most out of my insurance.” 

Garcia had him do a breathing test, and she frowned a little at the numbers but said they weren’t so unusual for someone who’d had a major asthma incident the night before. “Until we have you better regulated with medication, you should wear this when you go outside.” 

She held up a blue paper mask. Steve said, “I mean no offense, ma’am, but I already have a pretty good mask.” 

“It’s this or avoiding the outdoors altogether,” she said. 

“I — “ Steve bit back his instinct to argue, trying to remember she was just doing her job. He stared through the glass exam doors, watching the slow midday traffic beyond. “Can I ask you something? Why’s it so much worse now? The asthma I had when I was — before, it was bad, but I made it through basic training without dying. And I was outside all the time.” 

“To be completely honest, I’m not sure,” Garcia said, and the apology in her voice almost undercut her usual professional confidence. “Our working theory is that your body grew so dependent on the serum’s qualities that it can’t adequately respond to immunological threats right now.” 

That sounded terrifying. “Is it gonna get better?” 

“I don’t know,” she said. “It might.” 

“Or it might get worse? Well, that makes me sorry I asked,” Steve said, fingering the paper mask. 

“I’ll have a box sent to your quarters, along with a peak flow meter.” She explained how that all worked, the tests he’d need to do a few times a day, the schedule she recommended for using the inhaler, all of it. 

When she’d finished her explanations, he asked, “What kinds of side effects does the inhaler have?” 

“Are you having any problems?” 

He held out one hand, and they both watched it tremble in mid-air. “That’s normal,” she said. “Increased feelings of anxiety or nervousness aren’t uncommon, particularly when you take two puffs and have an adrenaline rush going, too. You might also have some trouble sleeping. Your wristband will monitor your sleep patterns, so we can adjust if we need to, and figure out how to use that inhaler to prevent attacks instead of treating them.” Her smile was a bit more genuine, now, than the bright, false greeting they’d started with. “We will get this managed, Captain, I promise. People with asthma still lead completely normal lives.” 

“Normal,” Steve said, hearing a death sentence in the word, but he nodded. “Thanks again.” 

When he left, Vision was waiting in the hallway. Steve figured he’d heard everything through the doors or read his ever-changing medical file while he’d waited, which probably meant the entire team had been getting real-time text-message updates. That, at least, absolved him of having to tell anyone anything. 

“I’ve uploaded the new training regimens into the simulator,” Vision said. 

“Thanks,” Steve said, wondering when he’d get around to practicing with his shield again. “I appreciate your help.” 

“You’re most welcome, of course.” They cleared the med wing and strolled down the connecting hallway. “I wondered if you might have a moment to discuss what I found from the computers you and Sam recovered.” 

“Oh, right,” Steve said, not sure how he’d forgotten those. He pointed Vision back toward his conference room, even though he’d been planning to nip upstairs and grab a sweatshirt. “Were you able to decrypt them?” 

“Yes, that was no problem.” 

Steve sat on the table, looking up at Vision’s face. It was hard to tell what emotion was being expressed on his face, but his voice sounded worried. “Nothing there?” 

“Very little that’s of use,” he said. “Almost nothing on the anti-serum, but…” His hesitation felt like a warning bell. “The information I did find was, well, rather familiar.” 

“Familiar how?” Steve asked, or started to, but Sam wrapped on the door. He still smelled faintly of wind and heat, but he was back in T-shirt and cargos. 

“You all right?” 

Steve nodded. “All clear. Just finished with the doctor. Got a bunch of new breathing toys.” 

“Yeah? Anything I can sell on the black market?” 

Steve narrowed his eyes. “You in on that with Natasha?” 

Sam laughed. “You two coming to the threat assessment?” 

Steve nodded and slid off the table. “Let’s talk later,” he said to Vision, and joined Sam in the hall. 

Natasha and Wanda were working on an interrogation exercise, and Rhodes was, well, Steve didn’t actually know, but he trusted him to have a serious reason for missing the meeting. Without them, it was just him and Sam and Vision and Maria Hill by video and a couple of random analysts she pulled up to talk about the eastern threat. There was nothing new. The likelihood of a mission that night was pretty small. Vision volunteered to find Wanda and remind her that they were on call that evening, so they didn’t have a chance to complete their talk. Sam had more work to do with the engineers, which left Steve on his own to do whatever he needed -- which was, honestly, to rest in his apartment. 

Upstairs, he made it to the kitchen before he realized he wasn’t alone. 

“These really are hideous chairs, aren’t they?” 

Steve turned from getting a glass of water, realizing the problem with Lowell’s doorstop. “You would know. You ordered them.” 

Stark tapped the arm of his seat. “Now, how do you know it wasn’t Pepper? She’s got a mean streak, but no one believes me.” 

“Oh, I believe you,” Steve said, pulling out one of the tall seats at the counter. He sat on it, half-facing Stark. “I imagine she’s got to have a dark side to spend all of her time with you.” 

Stark grinned. He was wearing a beige suit jacket over a red T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers that looked worn but were probably brand new and expensive. Steve felt underdressed for the second time that day, though feeling stuffy in Stark’s presence was nothing new. “Well, I won’t deny that I’ve had an influence on her.” 

Steve nodded. Stark was smiling, but he was also toying with the cuffs of his jacket, and it was the middle of the day on a Saturday. Either the world was going to hell -- in which case, he would have heard something from Fury before dawn -- or Stark had something he wanted to say. 

He remembered, suddenly, Vision saying that the computers’ content had looked familiar. “Oh,” Steve said, holding his glass in both hands. The shaking had mostly stopped, at least. “So, you’re here to tell me something about the anti-serum, huh?” 

“Yeah. How’s that, uh, all going?” 

Steve raised an eyebrow. “You mean you don’t know? I thought Natasha was e-mailing my whole medical record out every morning.” 

“Who has time for e-mail? No, Fury mentioned the lab had something interesting, and Vision passed along some of the coding because it looked, well, familiar, and I just, you know, uh, can we go with I was in the neighborhood?” 

“It looked familiar?” Steve said, then laughed. “Shit, Tony. It’s yours, isn’t it?” 

“Technically, it’s Hydra’s,” he said, “but there are elements, ah,” he ducked his head and scratched the base of his neck, and Steve thought this wasn’t the first time he’d wanted to just grab Tony Stark by the back of the neck and shake him into next week. It wasn’t even the first time recently. “So, yeah. It looks like, this is something we started for SHIELD.” 

“For SHIELD. Son of a bitch,” Steve said, setting his glass down. “SHIELD developed an anti-serum for me?” 

“Not, actually, for you,” Stark said. “Please go back and note the ‘we’ in that last statement. I didn’t make this myself, not really. I had an assist, a very, well, interested party that worked with me.” 

“Interested… Banner,” Steve said. “This was for him?” 

Stark nodded. “We called it Project Relief. Good news for you is, we could never get it to stick. At least, not for him. It was always temporary.” 

Something in Steve’s stomach eased hearing that. “How temporary?” 

“For him? Maybe a few hours, first batch. His tolerance kept getting lower, though, and the side effects weren’t so great. Uh, he had some pretty serious allergic reactions to some of the delivery agents. We stopped production and I thought I’d nuked the notes, but, I guess they lived on in some archive. Maybe he wrote it up for SHIELD, and that’s how Hydra got it.” 

“Maybe,” Steve said. He could imagine exactly how interested both SHIELD and Hydra would be in a super-soldier neutralization agent. SHIELD had been looking for ways to stop the Winter Soldier for decades, while Hydra -- well, they’d succeeded in taking him out. He felt a shiver of sympathetic fear at the idea that Bucky could have already been similarly dosed. He’d been off the map for more than year. That, however, was something to worry about after Stark was gone. “So -- you think it will wear off for me, too, huh?” 

“Yeah. It should. Probably. Eventually? It’s gonna be fine,” Stark said, looking out the window. “Banner would be the one to ask. He’s the biologist. Of course, I’ve got no idea where he is, and it sounds like Fury doesn’t, either. Doesn’t seem like it would be that hard to track down a giant green Hulk, but I guess you guys have other priorities.” 

“Well, some people, when they leave, they actually leave,” Steve said, and Stark laughed and stood up. 

“I heard Rhodey’s back. Is he here? You guys got a bar? I came in the new Mark. Great for speed, terrible for in-flight refreshments.” 

Steve blinked. “You flew all the way from California in your suit to tell me this?” 

“Don’t get too touched. I was in New York this week.” He started for the door. “You coming?” 

“I’ll see you at dinner,” Steve said, not ready to pal around with Tony Stark just yet. He needed a few minutes to absorb the idea that his own organization had held the key to deactivating his abilities, and that they’d never so much as warned him. 

Sam knocked on his door before the threat meeting. “Everything OK?” 

“I just had a drop-in from Stark,” Steve said. He was staring out his window at the trees. “I could really go for a run right now.” 

“If the texts that Vision was sending earlier are accurate, I think you really couldn’t,” Sam said. He leaned against the tall counter, and when Steve glanced over, he saw his arms were crossed. “Let’s get back to Stark in a minute. What happened on the roof today?” 

Steve shrugged, looking outside again. “Asthma,” he said, voice low. “I didn’t have a full-on attack or anything. Just got caught up and didn’t realize I was short of breath again. The inhaler took care of it.” A searchlight swept over the grass, the first of the evening. It had grown dark since Stark had left, which meant it was probably time for dinner. Nothing sounded appetizing. “The doctor says I can’t go outside without a mask.” 

“Like your Cap mask?” 

Steve pulled a crumpled paper surgical mask from his pocket and handed it back to Sam. He grunted, which was about as unimpressed as Steve felt. “Environmental triggers.” 

“They think it’s manageable?” 

“Honestly? I think they’ve got no fucking idea,” Steve said, and saw Sam flinch at the curse. “Garcia didn’t say it outright, but I think she’s pretty surprised at how bad I’ve gotten in so little time.” 

“You still look OK,” Sam said, and Steve heard it for the attempt at lightening the mood that it was. 

“Yeah,” he answered, glancing down at this body he hadn’t initially earned but had, every day since, so deeply and truly appreciated. “For now.” 

“All right,” Sam said, “whatever Stark said, you’re gonna tell me all about it on the way to dinner, and whatever plan you had for doing work or wallowing in your medical reports this evening, forget it.” He grabbed Steve by the shoulder and dragged him back from the window, steering him toward the entrance. “Let’s go down to the mess and just take the night off. Wanda’s on rotation with Vision. We’ll get Natasha and Rhodes, take over the pool table, play for some of those 1940s pension checks of yours.” 

“I’m not gonna be much company,” Steve said, though he was going along willingly enough. 

“I’m enough company for both of us,” Sam said, smiling, and Steve almost managed to smile back. 

He did explain what Stark had said as they headed down to dinner, and Sam looked more angry than Steve really felt about it. Then again, Sam hadn’t had much direct exposure to Stark, and knew him mostly as the guy who had recently nearly blown up the world, so it was understandable that he was quicker to get mad. What surprised Steve was how, well, good it felt, like Sam was taking his side against Stark. 

And really, that probably was one of the reasons that Steve liked having Sam around. It felt like Sam was on his side on everything, like Sam was his trusted confidant, his friend above the others. It had been like that with the Howling Commandos, back in the day, when Steve and Bucky had been able to communicate so clearly with each other, so openly, with complete trust, or when Peggy had just understood what Steve needed to do without Steve even saying the words. Natasha was great, and he trusted her with his life, would trust anyone on the team, but their friendship came from sharing the same goals and enemies. Sam’s friendship was more than that. It felt like more than that. 

_Get a grip, Rogers_ , he thought, almost physically shaking himself out of that train of thought. Still, though, it felt important, to recognize that Sam was his closest friend, and he hadn’t had a best friend in a long time. Not since Bucky, and that was another path of memory not to wander down tonight. 

“Cap’s buying,” Sam said, pushing Steve toward the bar, and Steve rolled his eyes. The mess here was actually an entire floor. Because the base was so isolated from normal towns, they’d created a complex within their complex where anyone — from the Avengers to the lowest-level staff — could go for fun. There was a bowling alley, a food court with a variety of take-out options, a video game arcade (which Sam said was “old school,” though the games were all, of course, new to Steve), an indoor miniature golf course, and their destination that evening: the A-Bar, which was a bar in the evenings and a sit-down restaurant during the day. The Avengers all drank for free. 

The bartender was a sturdy old woman named Greta, and she handed over his usual lemon-lime soda before she started working on everyone else’s orders. 

“You know,” Steve said, eyeing a foaming pint glass of beer, “I think I might take one of those myself this evening.” 

“Lemon?” she asked, not even blinking. Steve had the occasional light beer here, when he just craved the taste of icy cold brew. The last time he’d tried one, it had been some fancy micro-brew that Sam had requested, and he’d insisted it only tasted good with a lemon dropped in. 

“No thanks. And I really will pick up the tab.” He smiled, and Greta nodded, working on something so pink and fruity that Steve knew it had to be destined for Stark. No one else had the machismo to drink that. 

“It’s called a Firelight Flamingo,” Stark said, taking his first sip. It apparently made his head twitch and his eyes bug out, which was a good thing, he swore. Steve followed him to a long table in the corner, where everyone had already folded in for the evening. He pulled a chair up to the end of the table, sitting between Vision and Sam. 

Greta came by with a tray and slid a beer apiece for Steve, Rhodes, and Sam onto the table before handing Natasha a glass of neat whisky. Wanda sat beside her, sipping a cup of green tea. She and Vision were on rotation that night, which meant no drinking -- not that either of them were big drinkers, anyway. Vision didn’t need human food or drink to sustain himself, and Wanda tended to shy away from anything that could interfere with her control of her powers. Steve usually didn’t drink, either; without the ability to get drunk or even just pleasantly buzzed, there just wasn’t much point. 

That evening, though, as he looked at the glass before him, he realized that the changes in his system meant he probably could get buzzed. He could probably get drunk, and it wouldn’t take much effort. 

“You cleared to drink that?” Natasha asked. 

“He’s old enough,” Stark said, and Steve didn’t even spare a reaction. 

“Good question,” he said, wondering how he could find out. Maybe it would be safer to just -- 

“The only known interaction between your current medication and alcohol is an increased risk of hypertension,” Vision said, unprompted. “I don’t believe this is of any concern. However, asthma attacks are more likely when you’ve ingested sulfites or other possible allergens such as those found in fermented beverages.” Steve just stared at him, not sure what to say. Sometimes, it was great to have a walking version of the compounded knowledge of the last two centuries following you around; sometimes, it was just a buzzkill. 

“I bet one is fine,” Stark said. “You still weigh, what, 230?” 

“Two-forty.” 

“Geez, Cap, lettin’ yourself go already, huh? Well, I doubt one beer’s gonna do anything, even if you haven’t been drunk since before prohibition.” 

“I was 2 when that started, so I don’t think I missed much,” Steve said, but he lifted his glass. 

“A drinking prodigy, then?” Everyone relaxed back into their chairs. Steve wasn’t sure Stark’s medical knowledge was something to rely on, but he figured his math was at least correct. Steve did weigh enough to put away a drink or two without much concern, and his medi-track wristband was going to alert everyone if he did start to have a problem. 

So he sat back and tried to enjoy his drink and the company of his friends. Usually, this wasn’t hard. Even after he came back from missions and felt the weight of his efforts like a physical load on his back, he could relax into the background as his teammates bickered and bantered and laughed. Tonight, though, even listening to Natasha and Rhodes double-team Stark about his latest (ridiculous) invention, he couldn’t turn off his mind. He couldn’t stop thinking about Stark’s hesitance in his apartment that day, the way he hadn’t met Steve’s eyes when he’d said the Relief serum would likely be temporary. 

He took another sip and sunk deeper into his head. The doctor’s talk about managing his asthma echoed there, too, about how she wanted to get him into a routine. Steve liked routine, lived by it, but he understood that you didn’t start a routine unless it was going to last. She thought this was permanent. 

Steve took one more uneasy sip and realized he was starting to think it might be, too. And if it was -- well, he didn’t know what that would mean, but it would certainly call an end to relaxing nights with his teammates after a world-saving raid. 

It would probably be an end to Captain America. Steve closed his eyes. 

“Hey, guy,” Sam said, slugging his biceps. “Half a pint and you’re already drowsy? I bet you were a ton of fun in the old days.” 

“I said I wouldn’t be much company.” 

Around them, the bar was empty, probably on purpose. Steve wondered which of the team had cleared the space. They often took over one of the lounge rooms after a mission so that they could drink and talk freely without having to resort to a clandestine conference room. This wasn’t post-mission, though, so clearing the room -- that meant someone had something to say. “I didn’t think it was past your bedtime already.” 

“Yeah, the desk gig wear you out, Rogers?” Natasha asked, her teasing tone a little too bright, a little bit worried. 

Steve opened his eyes and sat up, just a little. “No, I’ve just got to stay up long enough to have some kind of medical emergency, or the doctors might think I don’t love them anymore.” The joke fell flat and earned him everyone’s attention. Steve sighed. “Sorry, guys. I’m just not...” 

“Feeling like yourself?” Rhodes said, and Steve nodded. He really was tired. “We get it, Cap, but -- you know it doesn’t matter to us, right? Supersoldier or not, you’re still the guy in charge.” 

“And you are not broken,” Wanda said. 

That didn’t seem like the right assessment, but he got what she meant. He didn’t have a broken arm or a busted leg or a couple of unavoidable bullet holes. “Maybe not, but it feels like I kind of am.” 

“What, because now it hurts a little when you get hit? Welcome to our everyday routine, man,” Sam said, and he and Rhodes bumped fists across the table. “Look around the table, Steve. You don’t need superpowers to be an Avenger.” 

“Yeah, I know,” Steve said, unable to keep the frustration out of his voice, “but I’m also pretty sure that I need to be able to leave the building to keep doing my job. I’m allergic to the air outside, guys.” He picked at his bar napkin. “I’ve been through this before, OK?” 

Natasha rolled her eyes. “And if our files are right, you fought your way into the military despite being a poster child for 4-F.” 

“Right,” Steve said. “But you know what? I didn’t know anything about war then. I was about as brave as I was stupid, and I was plenty stupid. If I’d gone over in the shape I was in, I would’ve gotten people killed.” 

“Fine, but you’re not that guy anymore, either,” Stark said. “Look, I mean, I think we all know, hell, all of America knows, that you didn’t get picked for the project in the first place because you could run fast. Erskine picked you because you’re the most fucking upright soldier America’s ever known. The stuff that’s changed, that’s not what makes you Captain America.” 

“Yeah, Tony? How’d you feel if someone blew up your suits? Think you’d still be Iron Man?” 

“Been there, done that, got the T-shirt,” he said. “And then I got over myself and built another suit. Hey! There’s an idea. You want one?” 

Steve rolled his eyes. “Yeah, ‘cuz an asthma attack inside one of those would end really well.” He could see Stark’s eyes already glazing over, designs probably spinning in front of him, and he said, “Seriously, no. But thank you.” 

“There’s no guarantee that this is permanent,” Natasha said, and Steve sighed. 

“There’s no guarantee that it’s not.” He looked around the table, saw the concentration, the frustration, on his teammates’ faces. At least there wasn’t pity -- yet. “Look, you’re right. I don’t know what this is going to mean for my role here, yet. But -- it’s going to mean something.” 

“Of course it will,” Vision said, “but must it mean something negative?” 

Steve laughed. “It’s kind of hard to see an upside, here.” 

“No, Vision’s right,” Sam said. “Look, I get it, man. I’ve seen lots of vets who lost stuff in the war. I know it’s hard. But -- there’s gotta be something that’s gonna be better. Might take some time, but I bet you’ll figure it out.” 

Steve sighed, but he lifted his nearly-empty glass in a cheers. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe you’re all right. Better not to borrow trouble, anyway, I guess.” 

“Wait and see,” Stark said, signaling Greta for another round. “My least favorite kind of plan.” 

An hour later, Steve and Sam waved goodnight to Natasha and Wanda and Vision, who were holding down the corner of the table, talking about a Balkan op from a few years back that they all held some interest in. Stark and Rhodes had left the party early because Stark had some brilliant idea about Rhodes’s suit, and Rhodes had gone along to chaperone. 

“What do you want to bet there’s gonna be a star-spangled suit on my doorstep with a bow one of these days?” Steve asked as the elevator whisked upwards. 

“I would never bet against Tony Stark being an asshole,” Sam said, but he was smiling. They were leaning against the back wall of the elevator, shoulders just brushing. They’d spent most of the end of the evening just chatting, and Sam’s warm presence at Steve’s side had had its usual steadying effect. “Dude’s heart’s in the right place, though.” 

“Almost always,” Steve agreed. The door slid open, and they stepped into the chilly hallway. Steve had finished two beers over the course of the evening, and Vision had assured him that all of his vital signs were normal as they’d left. He didn’t feel buzzed, not really, though he did feel a little looser than he had before they gone down to dinner. 

So later, he wouldn’t be able to blame this on the beer, or the medication, or anything except the fact that, for some reason, having his friends stick up for him _against himself_ that evening had given him a glowing, warm feeling inside. When Sam turned and grinned at him, lifting an eyebrow, and said, “You remember your keycard this time, or do I need to get out the spare blanket again?” Steve let himself just stare at that smile. 

“No spare blanket,” Steve said, voice a little rough. 

“You all right?” Sam asked, and Steve said, “I’m fine,” right before he took one step forward, right into Sam’s personal space, and when Sam kept smiling at him, Steve kissed him. 

It took Sam just a second to catch up, but that was nice; that felt like normal, or the old normal, Steve charging ahead and then Sam right behind him, working harder but there, yes, right there. Sam pressed him back against the wall right outside of his own door, his hands firm on Steve’s waist, and it took Steve a minute to realize Sam was holding him back and away. 

“What?” he said, surprised. 

Sam said, still standing close, his lips wet, “What are you doing, man?” 

Steve laughed. “I don’t know,” he said, always honest. “Sam, I have no idea.” He let his head fall back against the wall and covered his face with his hand. So this was going to be exactly the worst thing he could have done. Wonderful. 

“I’m just saying, you’re goin’ through some stuff, I get it.” Sam’s hand was still on his waist, but the grip felt more steadying than alluring. Steve wondered if he’d ever be able to look him in the eye again. “A roll in the sack isn’t a bad way to pass the time, but --” 

“I didn’t mean -- This wasn’t. I, Sam --” Steve said, looking across the hall, hand still covering most of his warming face. “Just forget it,” he said, wishing Sam would back away. He could still smell him, the sweet-tart hit of sweat and maybe shampoo or deodorant, clean, sharp scents he already associated with Sam. 

“Yeah, ‘cuz you kissing me is something that’s gonna be real easy to forget,” Sam said, looking at him with narrowed, serious eyes. And oh, shit, that was worse because Sam had his counseling face on, and it reminded Steve of just what a serious mess he was. His heart pounded, and he wanted nothing more than to turn and escape to his room, but he’d never been one to run from a confrontation -- even if it might feel like pulling his own guts out to try and talk about this all while Sam watched him in that clinical, caring way. “What’s going on?” 

Steve rubbed a hand up through his hair, and as he did it, he saw the blinking red light on his wristband, just before it chimed and buzzed. 

“Steve?” Sam asked. 

“It monitors my pulse,” he said. “It’s just -- “ 

Friday’s voice rang through the hallway. “Captain, your meditrack shows --” 

“I’m fine,” Steve said, practically spitting out the words. Sam had stood back at the first beep and was now staring at him from across the hallway, both hands out as though approaching a wounded animal or traumatized veteran. Maybe that was what he was. 

“Your pulse oximeter reading —” “Fuck your readings!” Steve said, and he whirled and pounded his fist into the wall. A week ago, that would have left a mark on the wall, and Steve would have owed the maintenance staff a pack of beers for fixing it. Tonight, the wall didn’t move, but something seemed to pop in his hand, and he swore again as the pain lanced up his arm. 

“Captain --” 

“I got this,” Sam said. Steve rested his forehead against the wall, cradling his injured hand against his heaving chest. When Sam’s hand fell gently, cautiously, on the middle of his back, Steve felt like weeping for the first time in just over 70 years. It just felt so much like pity. 

“You got your inhaler?” he asked. 

Steve nodded. “Jacket,” he said, and started to reach to his ride side with his uninjured left hand, but Sam beat him to it. The inhaler floated up in front of him, and Steve took it, reluctantly. To use it, he would have to draw back from the wall, and that would put him face to face with Sam, which was the last place he wanted to be. 

His wristband beeped. OK, second-to-last place. He turned and took the inhaler. Sam stayed close while Steve did two puffs, and then he followed Steve inside of Steve's apartment and went to the kitchen for water while Steve sunk into the nearest armchair. He put his head down, almost between his knees, and was glad to feel that it was getting a little easier to draw in air. 

“You ought to get that hand looked at,” Sam said, pointing to his hand. 

“In the morning,” Steve said. “I’m OK. It’s --” 

“It’s probably just a couple of broken fingers, yeah,” Sam said, “no big deal, except you don’t fucking heal like a miracle anymore.” 

“You think I’ve forgotten?” 

“I think avoiding the med pod right now is Class-A Asshole behavior, yeah,” Sam said. 

It was the rough, raw anger in his voice that made Steve get up. He understood, then, that Sam wasn’t pissed about Steve’s reluctance to get help; he was pissed about the kiss, probably, about the awkward position Steve had just put him in. Christ, he was Sam’s C.O. He was the guy who had brought Sam to the Avengers. Was he going back, now, and wondering if it had been some kind of strategy, like he was some predator, just waiting for his chance to hit on him? 

“I’ll go,” Steve said, quietly, standing up. He didn’t look at Sam as he rose. “Thanks for the water. See you tomorrow.” 

“You need --” 

“I got this,” Steve said, and he waved his unhurt hand as he walked to the elevator.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is complete, but it's taking me a little longer to get the chapters posted than I thought. I should have the rest up tomorrow! :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve gets a new mission and has a few awkward conversations.

The hand required a splint. 

He didn’t actually go to the med pod. Instead, he went to the team locker room, where they kept a substantial packet of first aid equipment, and he wrapped his ring finger tightly to his middle finger. Vision walked in while he was working, so Steve submitted to a quick scan that revealed it was exactly the kind of injury he’d thought: minor, maybe a hairline fracture, the kind of thing a guy got from not only being dumb enough to punch a wall but also by being dumb enough to use poor form when doing it. Steve probably would have assigned himself to a couple of hours with the heavy bag if Vision wasn’t there, staring at him with his glowing eyes, and if _Grade-A Asshole behavior_ wasn’t ringing around in his head. 

“Just gonna hit the sack,” he told Vision, who was practically projecting a lighted path toward the med pod. “Thanks for your help.” 

He slept poorly, not just because his hand hurt. What had he been thinking? Last night of all nights, to come on to Sam -- seriously, he could hardly think of a worse time for a come on. _Oh, hey, I’m your washed-up team captain, slowly deteriorating into a mess of physical ailments, and you’ve already had to take care of my sick ass a couple of times this week, you wanna make out?_ Maybe if they’d been in the middle of a firefight, that would have been worse, Steve thought, turning over and regretting it when he gave his pillow a rough punch. Then again, in the middle of a fight, at least he could have blamed adrenaline. 

Seriously, Steve had never been good at reading other people. What if Sam wasn’t even -- didn’t even feel that way about other guys? Steve had read enough to know that things were some better than they had been in 1943, but that didn’t mean everything was. He’d thought he was clear about all of this after their road trip chat, but maybe it had been just wishful thinking. Maybe Sam wasn’t going to punch him out for the suggestion, but that didn’t mean it was OK. 

His alarm went off at a stupidly early hour, but Steve dragged himself up and out of bed even though it felt like gravity had gotten heavier overnight. His hand throbbed when he moved it, but if he held it very still, it wasn’t so bad. A couple of Aspirin would probably even him out -- though, he thought, wincing, he should probably check with the doctors to see whether that was allowed. 

Well, at least now he knew how to spend his morning. 

The med pod looked like it always did. There were no sleepy times here, just the same cool efficiency under the searing lights. Steve fought the urge to clasp his hands in front of him as he approached the central station where the nurses and assistants buzzed. He missed his shield. 

Luckily, Davis was on duty. “Hi,” he said, and then gave in and set his hands on the counter. The splint gave a soft click. “I wondered if I could borrow that exam room again.” 

He stayed in the pod for a couple of hours. Helen Cho and her team consulted by video conference, and one of their in-house bioengineers ran the mini-cradle over Steve’s hand for half an hour. It was a strange experience, like he could feel his bones swelling and warming but not in a bad way. 

“You know, we talked about whether we could use this for your current condition,” the engineer said, brushing a sweep of blond hair out of her face. 

“Yeah? What was the verdict?” Steve could already tell from her disappointed tone what she would say. 

“Because it rebuilds your cells from what you already have, it would only replicate the problem. Maybe even make it worse.” 

“Well, there’s a nightmare I’ll have tonight,” Steve said, watching the blue glow around his fingers. 

After the machine finished its humming, Dr. Garcia came in to talk with him. “Do you have some time?” she asked. 

Steve thought about what he could be doing with his healed hand: attending a team training that morning, standing on the sidelines, watching Sam with trepidation and embarrassment. “Yeah, I’m free.” 

This time, he listened attentively to her suggestions, took notes in his small pad about how often to use the inhaler, how much he could exercise, and which allergy medications they might be able to get going. He answered her questions honestly and let her run a few more tests. When he left, at lunch time, he only had a lingering stiffness in his hand reminding him that anything had happened. He felt light-headed but determined, remembering Garcia’s promise. “We’re here to help, Captain,” she’d said. “We’ll do everything we can to get you back to peak performance.” 

Peak performance. Steve shook his head at the term, but it was imprinted in his brain, anyway. That was the goal. Just having an objective felt like relief. 

His shoulders knotted up as he entered the team lunch room because Sam was sitting at the end of the table, scooping chili over a baked potato. Steve knew his face was turning red, but he just said, “Chili day? I hope they’ve fixed the ventilation problem in the conference room.” 

Rhodes laughed, and Sam smirked, then gave him an evaluative look. Steve made himself meet Sam’s gaze, gave a small nod, like, _Yeah, I’m fine, you?_ and Sam nodded right back. So they’d have to talk, but maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. 

The afternoon didn’t offer a chance for that talk, though, and not only because Steve was putting it off. Their analysts had found some information on a new underground Hydra spin-off that included a guy named Balko that Steve had run up against before. Fury, who was back, thought the new info about him might be actionable. They’d also been receiving some disturbing reports from a far-flung SHIELD team about the possibility of some enhanced people causing trouble. Fury called him into a meeting that afternoon that lasted for hours as they tried to decide what, exactly, to do. 

“I don’t want to make this an Avengers op yet,” Fury said, after everyone else had left, “least of all because I don’t want to compromise the agents we have on the ground.” 

Steve stirred. He’d had four cups of coffee, which had made him jittery but still hadn’t managed to keep him wholly alert. “Compromise how?” 

Fury smirked, which was a terrible look on him. “Let’s just say that when I’m ready for you to work with my guy who’s running this, we’re gonna have to arrange an in-person meeting to get things rolling.” 

“Why’s that?” Steve said. “You turn someone from Hydra?” 

“No, he’s SHIELD through-and-through,” Fury said, still smiling. “And he’s a big fan.” 

“Great,” Steve said. He looked down at the inch-thick briefing packet that outlined what SHIELD knew so far about the enhanced people -- the Inhumans, as they called themselves -- and the threat they might pose. “So just a little light reading tonight, huh?” 

“Take your time. You can have until the afternoon tomorrow if you want it.” 

“Gee, thanks.” He started to stand, appreciating the stretch, and reached his hands up to get some blood moving. He winced when he pushed the healing finger too far and felt stupid for it. 

“I know you got a lot goin’ on now, Cap,” Fury said, “but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t take it out on my walls.” 

“Oh, your walls?” Steve walked over to the window that formed the outside of Fury’s office. This place looked a lot like his old office in the Triskelion, more than Steve thought was maybe healthy. “Thought they all belonged to Stark.” 

Fury said, voice even, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t take it out on your teammates, either. That includes Stark -- and Wilson.” 

Steve sighed. “There really was no way you didn’t see that, was there?” 

“Hey, what you do in your bedroom, that’s your business. I don’t put cameras in there.” Steve raised his eyebrows, and Fury continued without a pause. “What happens in my hallway, though --” 

“You have some ownership issues, Nick,” Steve said, and that surprised a laugh out of him. “It’s not a problem.” 

“I know it’s not a problem,” Fury said, “because I saw at least one of you kept your head on straight, pardon the term.” 

Outside, Steve could see a Quinjet preparing for flight. That probably meant Fury was on his way out again that evening, though it was hard to know. The man had so many irons in so many fires that Steve couldn’t keep track without dedicating his entire day to it and, like Fury had said, he had a lot going on at the moment. “It was stupid. It won’t happen again.” 

Fury scoffed. “Uh-huh. I don’t give a flying fuck whether it happens again, Cap. You can screw your way through the team if it works for all of you.” Steve looked over, but Fury looked dead serious. “What, you think you’re the first one to fish from the company pier?” 

And of course, Steve knew he wasn’t, but Natasha still wasn’t totally straightened out from whatever had happened -- or hadn’t happened -- with Banner. “So what? Why bring it up, if you don’t care?” 

“Because I care about you,” he said, and then Steve had to look back over just to make sure Fury wasn’t messing with him. “And I think I know you well enough by now to know that you aren’t the kind who wants a one-time, one-night stand with no strings, even if that’s all that’s on offer. You’re going through enough shit right now without piling some new romance on.” He scowled as Steve continued to stare. “Thank Christ Romanoff isn’t in here, or I’d be listening to that whole speech on YouTube tomorrow morning.” 

Steve laughed. “All right,” he said. “Message received. Thanks.” 

“Don’t thank me yet,” Fury said, and he settled behind his desk. “I found you a mission.” 

“Uh -- seriously? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but --” 

“I saw your medical reports from this morning, yeah, I’ve noticed,” Fury said. “But this one, I think you’re going to like.” 

* * *

Fury’s mission was enough to shut Steve up for the rest of the day. He skipped dinner with the team to brood a little in his apartment, puzzling over the new packet of info. It was the exact mission he’d been asking for since the Triskelion collapse, the one that Fury and Stark and all of the other Avengers had made him slide to the back burner: Bucky. 

Sam had spent the better part of six months doing recon, traveling the country to follow up on paper-thin leads and ghostly trails. For a while, the work had been concentrated: Bucky had spent a few weeks in New York, which they’d found out a few weeks later, before splitting to Philadelphia, then Toronto, then Colorado. They’d never known he’d been in a place until well after he’d left, and that was mostly because the forensics reports they’d received on the crime scenes always took time to float up through SHIELD’s system. In fact, they’d finally left off looking for Bucky -- for the Winter Soldier -- because not only was he was so good at covering his tracks that they couldn’t get a jump on him, he was going around the country mopping up Hydra agents, so SHIELD’s interest in stopping him was pretty low. 

There were other problems, too: Once caught, SHIELD wasn’t the only agency that would want their hands on Bucky. The Justice Department had a pretty long list of crimes they wanted to throw at his feet. That wasn't really the problem, though: the U.S. Government could be convinced to change its mind about just about anyone, once they saw the tactical or financial advantage of the alliance. No, the real obstacles to bringing Bucky in from the cold existed around all of the other entities that would want to see him charged with crimes or worse. As far as they knew, Hydra’s ability to re-program Bucky had blown up when they’d started taking out their labs and bases, but Steve had heard their motto a few too many times to really buy the idea that they could ever die. He just didn’t know where the surviving heads might be. 

So Steve had been convinced to let the search slide because, as Fury had pointed out at the time, it was far more likely that they’d accidentally encounter Bucky over the bodies of some common enemies than it was that they’d somehow catch a professional, programmed assassin off-guard. Besides, after Sokovia, and after Stark, and Banner, and Thor, and even Barton had left the Avengers, Steve had needed Sam on his team. The team had taken priority over Steve’s own personal mission. 

Now, though, Fury said it might be time to reassess his priorities. 

“You’re gonna be riding a desk for the next week or two anyway,” Fury had said, and Steve felt exhausted by just the idea of a few weeks of desk duty. “We’ve got some new intel, mostly collected by accident thanks to the Vision out there, and you’ve got a better insight into this guy than any of our analysts. What do you say, Cap? Feel like playing detective?” 

It sounded a little too good to be true, and Steve had spared a moment to consider that this assignment was Fury’s brand of pity. It turned out, though, that he didn’t care that much what Fury’s exact motivation was because he just wanted to find Bucky so damn bad. 

So that night, when he should have been resting or catching up on the thick briefing folder about the Inhumans or maybe, just maybe, having some kind of awkward apology conversation with Sam, Steve instead shut himself into his apartment, lit up the 3-D holo-computer that Stark had made standard, and started to work through the evidence. 

Two hours in, he already knew he could do this. There were little slips in the data that already looked like patterns. With some help and some time, he could pry this open, figure out what Bucky was looking for and where he was headed. The relief he felt was almost tangible, like someone unwinding a rope around his chest. Bucky was still out there, and Steve could find him. 

He slept pretty well that night. 

The next morning, he sent Fury a message to say he’d do it. “One condition, here,” Fury said on the video screen. “This can’t be a crusade. You want to spend some time on it, use your evenings when you’re not out on training, that’s fine, but I still need a team captain, and that’s you. Unless you’re not up for the job --” 

“No, sir,” Steve said. “I understand.” 

“Good. Then you better get your ass down to breakfast.” 

Steve liked orders. He wasn’t always great at following them, but he still liked the shape that a mission gave his day. So he dressed for a workout and took Fury’s advice. He also took his inhaler, just in case. Dr. Garcia had put him on a short course of steroids after their talk the day before as a preventative measure, but he needed to keep the rescue inhaler on hand, too. 

Particularly if, as was his goal, he wanted to participate in some of the day’s training. 

He was halfway down the hallway before he noticed Sam standing by the elevator. His steps staggered, but he didn’t stop. No time like the present, he told himself. No matter what Sam wanted to say, they were both headed to training, so he couldn’t chew him out for more than the next 5 minutes or so. 

“Morning,” Sam said as Steve came up next to him, and then he pressed the button for the elevator. 

Steve laughed. “You were waiting for me.” 

“Yep. Figured I wouldn’t get five minutes with you any other way today.” He kept facing front. Steve noticed he was in workout clothes: a logo T-shirt and long running pants, the only concession he’d make to indoor training. Sam didn’t go in for the aerodynamic gear that Steve himself favored, though he wasn’t sure why. The Under Armor stuff was terribly comfortable. “You coming to Natasha’s hand-to-hand today?” 

Steve nodded. “Not going to be able to do all of it, but I thought I could play along a little.” 

“Docs OK with that?” 

“Green light,” Steve said. “Just have to keep my hand wrapped.” 

Sam nodded, and they stepped into the elevator together. “So. The other night.” 

Steve took a deep breath. “Yeah. About that.” 

They stood in silence for the rest of the ride, and then Sam sighed as the doors opened. He pointed to the locker room, which was almost always empty. That morning was no exception. 

“Look,” Sam said, leaning against a bank of empty lockers. When they had new recruits, they would train here and fill the space, but until then, it was blank and cold and dry. “It’s not like I’ve never been down that road before, all right?” 

“Oh. OK.” Steve started to lean against the same bank, then wondered if that seemed like he was trying to edge into Sam’s space again. In truth, he was still running that answer around in his head. “Um, which road?” 

Sam gave him an appraising up and down look, and Steve could feel himself blush. “Oh.” So, at least he’d read that signal correctly. 

“But -- I know things are kind of crazy right now. I’ve been down that road before, too, and -- it’s not a good way to do this. Particularly not with someone like you.” 

“Like me,” Steve said, but before he could ask about that, the door opened. 

Rhodes walked in and said, “Romanoff says you guys better get out there in the next thirty seconds or she’s turning on the hose. And that’s a direct quote.” 

Sam said, “It’s almost pathetic how afraid you are of her.” 

“Yeah?” Rhodes said. “You want me to tell her you said that?” 

“Please do not do that,” Sam said, and Steve laughed. As Sam walked by him, he clapped Steve on the shoulder, and Steve understood that he thought their talk was over, that everything was fine, while to Steve, it felt like it was just getting interesting. Well, it was probably better this way. At least he knew that Sam, too, thought that anything romantic happening between them was a very bad idea, even if he wasn’t sure exactly why. That long look, though -- Steve definitely couldn’t think about that if he didn’t want to set off his heart rate monitor. 

“You sure about this?” Rhodes asked as Steve followed them him into the padded gymnasium. Natasha was already suited up across the room in her all-black stretchy tank and pants, and she did a hands-to-the-floor stretch that would have made most ballerinas envious. 

“Yep. Got clearance from the med wing and everything,” he said, and took his preventative puff. “Can’t start running again, yet, but they said wrestling was likely fine.” 

“Uh-huh,” Rhodes said. “They don’t really understand what we do out here, do they?” 

Steve watched Natasha run straight at the wall, climb it, flip, and land in a perfect, soundless squat. “Not so much.” 

The team had an hour of hand-to-hand combat practice scheduled under Natasha’s guidance. Steve lasted for thirty minutes, five of them against Natasha. “That wasn’t so bad,” he said, sitting against the far wall. He’d hit the inhaler at the first sign of the asthma attack, and as such, he’d mostly headed it off. 

“You’ll build more endurance,” Natasha said. Everyone else had taken the opportunity of Steve’s break to scatter, ignoring Natasha’s taunts as they went. “So is everything all right?” Steve raised an eyebrow, and she raised one right back. “I heard Fury gave you a pep talk.” 

Steve grinned. “It was a thing of beauty.” 

“I’m seriously going to get you a better phone, just for moments like that.” 

“Eh, he’s got jammers in his office, you know that.” He looked over, saw Natasha studying him. “Everything’s OK. Seriously.” 

To prove that, for the next several days, he got up early to train with his shield, then dropped in on the team trainings and participated until he’d pushed himself too far. Every day, he grabbed lunch with the team before holing up in his adopted conference room office space. There, he alternated between the necessary work to keep the team going smoothly and the more interesting work of piecing together the puzzle of Bucky’s recent movements. At night, sometimes, he went for a swim, since Garcia said the warm environment of the pool wouldn’t be likely to trigger an attack. Vision was his spotter. 

It should have been a good week, but it was hard. The training every morning left him breathless, usually hunched up and needing his rescue inhaler. Garcia and Blumenthal, the pulmonologist, adjusted his dosages and kept such close track of his numbers that Steve was practically reporting to the med pod after each meal. The meetings in the afternoon went fine, though Steve was often so tired he had to write down everything that they discussed just to keep himself alert and to make sure he’d remember it all later. When he could work on the Bucky search, he did, but twice he fell asleep in front of his computer and woke up sore and disoriented in the middle of the night, which was enough to trigger an alarm on his wristband. 

Still, he was working with his team, leading them, trying to keep his promise to Bucky, and all of it without his enhanced strength. It should have been good. Things should have been getting better. 

They just weren’t. 

He showed up for the Saturday morning calisthenics session only a few minutes early. It had been hard to drag himself from bed even though he’d slept pretty well. Dr. Garcia had been warning him that his red blood count reflected a substantial and unabated anemia, and Steve believed her. Just walking into the room seemed to take extra effort. It had been a week and a half. 

“Hey, where is everybody?” he asked, seeing only Natasha at the front of the room. 

She frowned. “I sent them on a different exercise this morning.” 

Steve raised an eyebrow. “Outside, huh?” 

“No,” she said. “Well, yes, but that’s not why I didn’t tell you.” 

He finished wrapping his fingers together. “OK. What’s up?” 

She blinked, then drew her mouth together, briefly, in a single line before she said, “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to train with us anymore. For a while.” 

“Oh.” Steve rested his hands on his waist, then crossed his arms, then put them back on his waist. “Uh. Am I slowing everyone down too much?” 

“You’re terrifying them,” she said, and Steve settled on crossed arms. “Wanda’s so freaked out every time you have an asthma attack, her eyes go a little red. Rhodes has seen it all, fine, but even he’s looking a little concerned. And Sam --” She sighed. “I just, I think it’s not great for morale, right now, to have to watch you hit the mat every morning.” 

Steve now felt worse inside than he had all week, but he tried not to let it show. “Right. No, that makes sense.” He cleared his throat and looked down at his hands, then started to unravel the tape. “Guess I don’t need this anymore.” 

“I’ll train with you,” she said, but something in her voice told him it was an offer out of friendship and kindness, not the kind of collegial offer he really needed. 

“That’s all right,” he said. “I should probably take it easy, anyway.” 

“Steve --” 

“It’s fine, Romanoff,” he said, and he watched Natasha’s face get a little tighter around the mouth. “Tell the others I’ll see you at lunch.” 

He went to the simulation room after that and spent the better part of an hour throwing his shield at targets and watching them smash with real satisfaction. His arms quivered as he left, but he knew better than to let anyone see that. 

Lunch was awkward but could have been worse. When he announced that he wouldn’t be joining them for training anymore in the mornings, he let Natasha off the hook, saying he’d consulted his medical team and they thought it was best to find other ways to build endurance. 

“I think it’s probably better if I focus more of my energy on running the team than running with the team, anyway,” Steve said, and Rhodes managed a thin smile at that. 

“Leadership sucks,” he said. 

It did, but at least it was something Steve was pretty good at. He probably felt worse than the team did about how he hadn’t even noticed that his problems were having an effect on all of them. Maybe that was why he finally let them in on what he’d been up to. 

“Seriously? I didn’t think that guy was ever going to surface,” Sam said, leaning forward over his empty plate. 

“From what I’ve read, I think he’s decided maybe it’s time to come in from the cold,” Steve said. “Or, at least, some part of him has. He hasn’t exactly gotten sloppy, but he’s left a trail.” 

“A trail of blood,” Natasha said, but she said it in a vaguely admiring way. “Is any of this actionable?” 

“Not yet,” Steve said, glossing past the fact that Fury hadn’t technically authorized involving the Avengers. He didn’t really answer to Fury, anyway. “But I’m hoping I might have some solid leads by the end of next week.” 

“I would like to meet this man,” Wanda said. “Your friend.” 

Steve almost managed a smile. “Well, he’s a little more complicated than that.” 

“Please,” Wanda said, rolling her eyes. “Everyone is more complicated now. But he is like your brother. That is important.” 

Steve nodded, not missing how Vision rested one careful hand on Wanda’s shoulder as she said the word brother. “It is,” he said. “So that’s what I’m going to focus on, at least until I get my health stabilized. But don’t think that means I’m letting up on training or team time,” he said, and everyone groaned good-naturedly. “You’ve got tomorrow off, like usual, but Monday morning, I think it’s time to try that incoming simulation again. I still don’t like our times. Plus, it will be good to start practicing new formations without me.” The last hurt just a little to say, but Steve managed it because it was true. Even if he recovered his prior strength, the team needed to be prepared to run without one member at any time. An Avengers team that depended too much on any one member wasn’t a team at all. 

“So do we get the afternoon off, too?” Sam asked, and before Steve could say anything, Natasha cut in. 

“If you’d made good time on your last dive, sure,” she said, “I could see you getting some time off. As it is, you’ve had the new wings for long enough now that I don’t think blaming the new calibration is cutting it anymore, Falcon.” She leaned on his title, and Sam groaned. 

“Come on, I’ll spot you,” Rhodes said, and the two of them started to peel off. 

Steve said, “It’s better for Natasha to spot Sam while you and Wanda work on target practice, and Vision can help me with some computer leads,” and the team’s quick acquiescence to his command eased something tight in Steve’s chest. 

He spent the afternoon with Vision, going over some deeply buried shell companies of Hydra’s that had, somewhere along the way, provided Bucky with a few thousand disposable credit-card numbers. The trick to working with Vision wasn’t so much finding the information -- Vision could pull up pretty much any networked piece of data in the world -- as it was learning to ask the right questions. He was wildly intelligent but not yet very intuitive, though Steve thought he saw some development toward deeper human-scale proactive thought sometimes. He didn’t really know whether to worry about that, but as long as Vision stayed on the side of life, he thought it was probably fine. 

That afternoon, they rambled down a dozen blind financial alleys before Steve called a stop. “I’ll continue running possibilities,” Vision said, and Steve thanked him. He had a feeling tracking Bucky wasn’t going to be as simple as connecting his most recent crimes with his source of income, but it still seemed like a good place to start. 

Steve skipped dinner with the team that night to work through more intel. As he lay down for bed, it occurred to him that this had been the first full day since the Hydra safe house attack where he hadn’t had some kind of physical problem. The brief feeling of triumph was crushed quickly under the idea that this had so swiftly become his idea of progress. 

It still didn’t take him long to fall asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Church, Chinese, and Natasha, then the three stooges hit the town and wonder why wardrobe likes Steve best.

He was one of the only people who got up early on Sunday. Outside, the complex was still, and not just because it wasn’t yet 7. Sundays weren’t objectively any different here than other days of the week; they still had meetings, and training, and enemies, after all. However, many people did actually use the weekends for scheduled family leave, and it was hard to get anyone from the outside world to contribute in conferences after the end of the work day on Friday, so things slowed down a little. 

For Steve, Sunday mornings meant church. They had a non-denominational meeting on the complex, and he’d been to it a few times, but it was uncomfortable and unfamiliar, the songs wrong, the preacher’s sermon more like a group counseling session than the morality lectures of Steve’s childhood. He’d found a small church in a small town about a forty-five minute drive from the complex that worked better. The denomination didn’t matter so much to him, but the atmosphere did, and when he’d been asked to describe it, he’d said, “Old fashioned.” 

That had earned a raised eyebrow from Sam and a roll of eyes from Natasha, so Steve had had to explain. He wasn’t interested in a church with old-fashioned so-called “values” or any of the evangelical stuff that he now found truly distasteful. He just wanted a church that reminded him of home, one where folks knew each other’s names and stories, where they all dressed up for the day but didn’t look down on a family who couldn’t afford the best finery, where they took the homily seriously but laughed at the pot-luck afterward, where they meant it both deeply and casually when they said they’d say a prayer for you. This little brick church settled at the very end of a cracking Main Street filled all of Steve’s requirements, and as a bonus, the congregation didn’t seem to care one whit that he was Captain America the rest of the time. (Well, some of the little kids cared, but Steve had signed their cardboard-cutout Cap Shields and promised one little girl he’d consider her application as a sidekick when she turned 18, so they were fine with him, too). 

So he dressed in dark slacks and a white button-down shirt and the one suit jacket he owned anymore, tied his tie, and then started to reach for his motorcycle jacket when it hit him. He couldn’t ride the bike to church. He couldn’t ride the bike anywhere, not through the beautiful, chilly morning air, not unless he wanted to stop en route to feel his throat closing up. 

Usually, if his bike wasn’t working, he would just ask Sam to borrow his car. However, Sam had left the afternoon before for a night and morning off, returning to D.C. for a friend’s birthday party. Well, he could just skip church that morning, but that didn’t sound great, either. He needed out of the facility today. 

That left one pretty unappealing option. 

“Hi,” he said, when Natasha opened her door. “I need to borrow your car.” 

She was still wearing her sleepwear, which also looked like her workout wear: black silk pants, a black tank top. He only knew she’d been sleeping because he assumed she had to sleep. Maybe she did all-night yoga. “Nice suit. Who died?” 

“Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior,” Steve said, and Natasha snorted. “I can’t take the bike. Please? I’ll bring it back right after lunch. No harm.” 

“I think that’s what you said last time.” 

“That wasn’t my fault, but it was on a mission. There’s no one at church who’s going to set your car on fire. I mean, Bitsy Canetta is vicious about the Rotary fund, but I think she’ll let me slide this week.” 

“Why aren’t you taking Sam’s car? I thought the last time taught you a lesson.” 

“When your car electrocuted me? Yeah, lesson learned,” Steve said, and he really didn’t want to go through this again. He’d sent her a text, asking to borrow her car for a quick run to town for a few necessary supplies, and she’d missed the message. That meant that when Steve had reached out to slide into the car, he’d been treated to a sharp strike of electricity. Natasha had been wholly unapologetic about the singed hair on his arm. “Sam’s in D.C.” 

Natasha said, “All right. But the price is dinner tonight. Moo shoo.” 

“Fine,” Steve said, “unless I get electrocuted at _any point_ today by something you own, in which case, no moo shoo for you shoo.” 

“Please leave right now.” 

He rode the elevator down to the garage and didn’t even realize he’d been holding his breath until the car opened directly for him with no sparks or jolts. 

At least church ran like normal. Steve was just early enough to snag a decent seat in the back, in front of the section reserved for families with small children but behind everyone else who’d been there early enough for coffee in the lobby. The homily slid past him in a harmless, soothing way, and he sang quietly when everyone else did and mostly just thought. He’d always felt bad, as a kid, when his attention had drifted in church, but the older he’d grown, the more he’d realized that it was kind of what church was for, giving yourself time and space and quiet for reflection. That morning, he tried to think about what it would mean to be Captain America without his usual super-soldier strength and healing. Was there really a bright side, like Vision had said? 

The problem was, there was almost nothing that he disliked about his job. OK, SHIELD was a pain in the ass, but he thought that, mostly, their heart was in the right place (when that heart had been adequately treated for Hydra infestation). He liked his team, liked working with them, liked the rescue missions and the recon, even. He liked working with the new agents, too, seeing them discover their own strengths and skills over the course of their time at the facility. 

And, really, he liked the good he could do and had done in the world. Yeah, saving it from aliens and Ultron, and from the Red Skull and later from Hydra again, that was pretty fantastic. But he liked the small things, too: he could tour hospitals where veterans lay, feeling forgotten, and turn their experience around with a smile and a handshake and a phone call. He could step onto the field at a Little League game and fill the stands so quickly that the star pitcher’s every dream came true within one short hour. He’d always felt like he had more to offer than anyone would give him a chance to contribute; now, the feeling was the opposite, of being pulled in so many directions that he wasn’t quite up to the task. 

And still, he loved that. 

The number one question people asked him was whether he missed “home.” They usually meant home as a place in time, like 30s or 40s. Steve didn’t think of it that way. He couldn’t. There was no traveling back to that time, so thinking of it as home was a losing prospect. He thought of those days as his childhood, his youth, and everything since he’d emerged from the ice had been adulthood, his second phase or story beginning. He didn’t really miss much from those times, anyway, not really, beyond a few friends from the war and Peggy and, of course, Bucky. 

Sometimes, though, as he waded through his daily list of events and requests and meetings and trainings, he would have a split-second desire to be just Steve Rogers again. Not really sick, weak Steve Rogers, not the kid living by himself in a slummy apartment with a deployed best friend, but just Steve. Steve without the shield. Steve without the famous face. Just Steve. 

Maybe that’s what would come from this. Maybe, just maybe, if everything else went wrong, he could just be Steve again. 

He left church feeling calm but sad. They’d asked, as always, if he wanted to stay for the pot-luck, even though he never brought anything, but Steve had declined. This time, though, when he’d said, “Well, maybe next time,” he thought he might mean it. 

Back at work, he buckled down immediately with his new intel. Vision had run the credit card charges through a complex maze of funding schemes and correlated the supplies found at the crime scenes -- bullet casings, rope, duct tape -- with purchase records in those areas. Steve had been able to add other details, like Bucky’s comfort food of choice, his general distrust of the suburbs, his admiration of Chevrolet brand cars -- that helped narrow things down, too. Vision could run probabilities faster than Steve’s gut, even, but when they hit a match in Baltimore, two days ago, a dark-haired man who’d rented a non-descript Chevy Malibu, paid with one of the stolen cards, unexpectedly returned the car to a different location with extra damage -- that had an 80 percent certainty of being Bucky, Steve’s gut said it was, too. 

So then they spent the afternoon cross-checking flight rosters and train passengers out of BWI with known aliases, or at least Steve did: Vision had an appointment that afternoon to help Wanda with a complex training assignment, so Steve worked through the files on his own. Once or twice, he thought about asking Sam for a hand, mostly because he wanted the company, but he didn’t ask -- mostly because he knew he just wanted the company. 

At 7, he picked up his order for Chinese food from the cafeteria, sparing a moment to chat with Manuelita, their head chef. “You don’t like your dinners?” she asked, eyebrows drawn together in a worried, motherly scowl. “I’ve been hearing you’re leaving plates with food still on them.” 

He shook his head. “It’s not you, it’s me, Lita.” 

She hummed and handed him a second bag of food. “Dessert,” she said, firmly, before sending him off. 

He took the opposite side elevator to Natasha’s apartment, grateful that his pocketed key card gave him access. 

“Looks like you got all of your usuals,” he said when Natasha opened her door. 

“I love Lita.” She let him in, and he fought the urge to duck. Somehow, Natasha’s apartment room always made him feel like a giant. He had a feeling her decor was mostly strategic, designed to convince an intruder that they were headed into the lair of someone fragile and girlish, but it worked on him in a different way. The low couches and pillows on the floor, the shadowy lighting, the moody music, it always felt like stepping into an intimate dollhouse. She left the curtains open that evening, though, and blue light from outside somehow made the whole scene less imposing. Still, he thought he should have invited her over to his apartment. 

“You want a drink?” she asked, walking to her kitchen. Of all of them, Natasha cooked the least. Her oven, Steve had found out by mistake, held a generous cache of weaponry. Her fridge, though, was always well stocked, as was the cabinet she used for a bar. Steve used the same cabinet to hold all of his plates. 

“Love one, thanks,” Steve said, arranging the paper cartons on her low, black coffee table. Lita had included silverware and plates and enough napkins to last for several meals. She clearly knew them all too well. 

Natasha reappeared with two tall cans of Japanese beer. “I know it’s mixing countries, but,” she said, and Steve shrugged. 

“Works for me.” Natasha had pulled a pillow up to the coffee table and would eat there, cross-legged, in gray soft cotton pants and a stretchy blue tank top. He wondered, idly, how many weapons she was currently concealing. She grabbed chopsticks from the tableware, and he upped his mental guess by one. 

He pushed over the box that had her wrapped up pancakes and two more, one full of vegetables and one full of spicy cold noodles. “I still don’t get these cartons,” he said, dumping his spicy beef broccoli onto an included paper plate. “Wouldn’t it be better to just send everything up on platters? It’s hard to get all of the sauce out.” 

“Not a lot of Chinese delivery in the 40s, I take it.” 

“Not a lot of Chinese food,” he said. “Though I’m given to understand that this isn’t real Chinese food, either.” 

“Nope,” she agreed. “Kind of have to go to China for that.” 

“Yeah? You been there?” 

“I’ve been everywhere,” she said. “These are good, want some?” 

He made a little room for the noodles on his plate. “Thanks.” 

She nodded and paused for a sip of her beer. “So, is this gonna be a thing?” 

“What, Chinese food?” Steve watched her sink a mouthful of spicy noodles into her mouth with a graceful slide of chopsticks. He looked at his own, large hands and knew only a fork and spoon would really see him through. 

“You borrowing my car.” 

“Oh,” he said, and didn’t let himself blow off the question. “Gosh. I guess -- I hadn’t thought about it until this morning, but I guess I’ll have to ditch the bike unless something changes.” 

“Or you could make up with Sam and then he could drive you everywhere,” she said, batting her eyelashes, and Steve groaned. 

“So you’re tapped into Fury’s security feeds, huh?” She didn’t answer, just raised an eyebrow. “That’s not going to be a thing.” 

“No?” 

“Definitely no.” 

She hummed. “It looked like --” 

“Leave it,” Steve said. “I’ve had first-person confirmation that it’s not going to be a thing, all right?” 

“Oh,” she said, eyes widening. She took a bite of her noodles. “That’s surprising, actually.” 

Steve took his own bite to delay having to answer. “What’s surprising is that I think I nearly got a sex talk from Fury.” 

That made her grin as she wrapped some vegetables in a thin pancake. “Well, someone had to give it. I doubt whatever you learned during the Great Depression is still the order of the day.” 

“Yeah? There some genetic modifications I should know about? New parts to deal with?” he asked and was rewarded with Natasha nearly choking on her moo shoo. “I don’t really think it’s changed that much.” 

“Not physically, maybe,” she said, giving him an appraising glance, and Steve hoped she couldn’t tell in the dim light whether he was blushing. And, of course, that he was bluffing, because he’d made time with just about zero people of either gender back before the ice. “But I’d bet you didn’t get to make out with a black guy much back in World War II.” 

“I had a guy on my team,” Steve said, and Natasha looked very interested, until he said, “Oh, cut it out, I didn’t mean I _had_ him, not like that. I meant, you know, Gabe Jones.” 

“Uh-huh,” she said. “And it would’ve been totally cool to make out with him, right?” 

“I think his girlfriends would have had something to say about it,” Steve said, focusing on cutting up a big piece of broccoli. “Mine might have had something to say, too.” 

“Carter, right?” Steve looked up from his broccoli. She’d never known Peggy’s name, at least, not in connection with Steve. When they’d been in the bunker, finding Arnim Zola, Natasha hadn’t recognized her, and he’d assumed, somehow, that that had meant he was safe. “Peggy Carter. British.” 

“She, ah, yeah,” he said. He took a drink and pushed the broccoli away. “I mean. Yes? Things, they weren’t like they are now. They were -- less clear, kind of.” 

“That’s a new one. I thought it was a little more formal back then.” 

He leaned back into her surprisingly squishy couch. His own was so much firmer, so much taller. This couch was either the most relaxing piece of furniture he’d ever encountered or special punishment. “Peggy was special,” he said, “and she was — she was it for me, back then. But, you know, otherwise, it was war time,” he said. “Guys were marrying girls all over the place after meeting them at dinner. Girls didn’t care any more which you did first, really, and our unit -- we were pretty famous. There were, ah, options, everywhere, and it, it never seemed to matter, really, that we were leaving the next day. To anyone.” 

Natasha swallowed her mooshoo. “To anyone but you?” 

“Oh. I didn’t begrudge those guys their fun,” Steve said, honestly. He could remember clapping Bucky on the shoulder, bowing out gracefully at another little on-base club so that the other guys would stand a chance. The truth was, in any of those bars, Steve could’ve found a girl in five minutes and then another one five minutes after that, if he’d wanted to. Yet while he’d changed so dramatically in some ways over those months, he’d never quite changed enough to enable himself to talk confidently to women, or to consider the fact that it might be nice to engage a girl for a night that wasn’t about finding the right partner. “It just wasn’t what I was looking for.” Peggy, he thought but didn’t say, had been exactly what he’d been looking for. He missed her so sharply for a moment that his stomach actually ached. 

Natasha stared at him for a moment, then said, “Is that other bag full of dessert?” 

After that, they talked comfortably about work. As they discussed the different training exercises she’d been setting up, he could tell she still felt bad about excluding him. In fact, he wondered if this entire dinner invitation might be her form of apology; they didn’t often purposefully get together for meals like this. It was fine with him either way. He liked spending time with Natasha. 

In some ways -- and Steve would never have said this aloud; it worried him that he’d even thought it because Natasha read him so well --  Natasha actually reminded him of Peggy in that he could talk with her about work and never worry about the chemistry between them. Hell, he’d kissed Natasha, once, had been on the receiving end of her rather intense brand of fluttering-eyelash flirting a dozen times, had held her through some of the more difficult moments in both of their lives, and he still didn’t think about her romantically. Of course, with Peggy, her competence, her daring, her work ethic and dedication to the mission -- that had been fuel to the fire of his admiration. They’d just always managed to set it aside to get the work done. 

How he’d felt for Peggy, though — that was more like how he felt for Sam, these days, which was a dangerous turn of thought. Steve detoured by asking Natasha about Rhodes’s absences, which she explained had been in service to Fury’s on-going battle not to share any technological secrets with the U.S. Military. 

“Oh, right,” Steve said, sighing as he pushed away a half-finished fried cheesecake roll. “I’m supposed to go to D.C. for some committee meeting soon. So looking forward to that.” 

“You taking the shield this time?” She finished her chocolate-covered strawberry and leaned back on her arms. “Just to protect yourself from getting stabbed in the back again, I mean.” 

Steve rolled his eyes. He’d gone to Capitol Hill to testify about some of the damage from Ultron. His appearance had been, ostensibly, in answer to a subpoena from the Joint Committee on Enhanced Security. In reality, he’d gone because Fury had cut a deal where Steve’s public testimony and grilling could be exchanged for Bruce Banner being dropped from consideration on the International Terrorist list. After what he’d felt was a combative but productive three-hour, televised discussion, he’d returned to the facility to find that someone on the committee had called for Vision to be dismantled and destroyed. 

“Yeah. Well, I did say I’d be back.” 

“And you are a man of your word.” 

“Shouldn’t have given up that apartment after all.” 

They finished the night talking about some of Steve’s research on Bucky, which Natasha seemed professionally and personally interested in. She had, after all, met Bucky -- the Winter Soldier -- before, but she also seemed to understand Steve’s belief that his friend still lived under there, somewhere. He appreciated that, and as he was leaving, he told her so. 

She nodded and looked away, just for a moment. The she stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “I’m sorry,” she said, and it was hard to isolate the reason for that apology. For his return to being sickly? For the training incident? He must have looked confused, too, because she said, “About Sam.” 

“Oh, that. It’s fine.” 

“Uh-huh. Look, though, if guys are your thing, I can widen my nets.” 

Steve snorted a laugh. “Thanks, but I think I’m gonna take myself off the market until things are a little more…” He couldn’t think of the right word. 

“Right,” she said, nodding, and he waved once before he walked to the elevator. 

When he reached his own floor, he resolutely did not glance at Sam’s door as he passed by. 

* * *

Steve went back to the med pod on Monday morning to meet with Garcia and Blumenthal. For once, they didn’t meet in his exam room; instead, they sat in a gray-and-green conference room off of Garcia’s office and discussed possible training regimens, duty restrictions, and new medication menus. They all agreed that the stability of the weekend did point to exercise being a major trigger, and that they’d have to change his inhaler schedule and dosage if he was ever going to get back into the gym, let alone the field. 

“In the good news category, you’re still clear as far as your insulin levels,” Garcia said, “and we’re not detecting any heart murmur.” 

Staring at the very short list of approved activities before him, Steve said, “Yeah, what a bright side.” 

Blumenthal gave Garcia a look so unsubtle that Steve almost laughed, maybe would have, if both doctors didn’t look so uncomfortable. “Captain,” Garcia said, her voice laced with reluctance, “I -- we’ve also wondered if there might be some additional therapy that you would find helpful.” 

Steve glanced between them both, took in the nervousness, and said, “Guys, you know I’m not opposed to experimental stuff. Just tell me.” 

“No, nothing like that,” Garcia said, almost managing a smile. “We were just thinking that -- with all of these sudden changes, well, we’ve both dealt with plenty of soldiers and agents who’ve returned from the field with grievous injuries, life-changing impairments. Many of them really benefit from some assistance that’s not just physical.” 

“Oh,” Steve said, sitting back in his chair. Should’ve seen that one coming, he thought. “Counseling. Um, therapy.” 

She nodded. “We have an excellent therapeutic staff.” 

“I know,” Steve said. “I’ve sent my people there.” That was true. Wanda had been in grief counseling since basically the moment they’d returned to the facility after the disaster in Sokovia. She’d been mourning not just her twin’s death but also the destruction of her home, and Steve didn’t really love the idea of setting someone whose powers were largely mental out into the world without her head screwed on right. Sam had also spoken pretty honestly about how helpful he’d found counseling services through the VA after his return from his second tour, too. “I’m not sure what you think I would gain from that.” 

“Some of your symptoms are clearly from the anti-serum,” Garcia said. 

“Others, however, may be more in line with a reaction to its symptoms.” Blumenthal, a kindly, gray-haired, thin doctor with a serious gaze, looked hard at Steve. “Your loss of appetite, for instance, might have to do with your metabolism returning to lower levels, but it might also be a sign of depression.” 

Steve rolled his eyes. “You guys been talking to Lita from the kitchen?” 

“It’s more than that,” Garcia said. “Captain Rogers, you’re going through some truly difficult times. Your role in the team is changing, your life’s work might be largely inaccessible to you for a while, and we haven’t yet been able to promise you that you’re going to have a medically uneventful day. You’ve mentioned having some trouble sleeping, recently, and some additional anxiety. That could be the medicine, but it could also be everything else.” 

“Well, when you put it like that,” Steve said, and he looked away from their earnest concern for just long enough to make it seem like he was thinking about it. He let his voice drop into its lowest register. “I promise I’ll think about it.” 

“Good.” 

Of course, he reflected later, as he left the med pod and headed toward the pool, of course he’d think about it. When your doctor told you that maybe it was time to get some mental help, what else could you think about for the next few hours? 

He trained anyway, and then got out of the pool to hit the team locker room. It surprised him to find Sam and Rhodes inside, Sam with just a towel slung around his hips, Rhodes already re-dressed in neat jeans with a pale green polo hanging on one locker door. Sam was saying, “...ask Steve,” as he walked in. 

“Oh, hey, we were just talkin’ about you,” Sam said, grinning, broad and welcome. 

“Oh yeah?” Steve grabbed a couple of clean towels from the rack and tried to decide whether it was worth it to shower here or whether he should just go back to his apartment. 

“Yeah,” Rhodes said, “we were -- wait, what are you wearing?” 

Steve could feel his blush as though it spread from his heart outward. “Uh, wardrobe left them for me,” he said, glancing down at his navy-blue swim briefs. They had an Avengers A logo on the right hip, though there was barely room because they were, well, pretty small and tight. The note left with the pair had mentioned they were of the highest quality aerodynamic material. Looking at Rhodes’s surprised and amused expression, Steve thought they probably hadn’t come from their usual wardrobe supervisor. _Natasha._

“Man, wardrobe never leaves me anything that fun. I got a new golf shirt last week.” 

“Rhodes, I wouldn’t go bragging that wardrobe doesn’t think you’d fill out a Speedo well,” Sam said, laughter in his tone. 

At least, Steve thought, turning into an empty bank of lockers, he had enough self-control that he wasn’t in any danger of embarrassing himself here, even though the lingering water droplets at the small of Sam’s broad back felt like an invitation. It wasn't like his swimsuit would cover any kind of reaction. Steve concentrated on drying off. “So what are you guys up to?” he called, pleased that his voice sounded normal. 

“Road trip,” Rhodes said, pulling his polo over his undershirt. “We were about to call you.” 

“Yeah?” Steve walked over, toweling his hair. “Something new come out?” 

Sam snorted. “Yeah, a new James Bond movie.” 

“Oh. You know, we can probably get Vision to just download it, show it on the screens here,” Steve said, and Sam rolled his eyes. He pulled on a thin, pale blue T-shirt, no logo. It made him look young, Steve thought, but in a good way, in a way that made him look like some guy in graduate school out for a beer. “The 3D projection’s pretty good in the conference room.” 

“Nah, man. It’s not the same. We need the full-on experience for Bond. Popcorn, Mike & Ike’s, the works.” 

“Yeah, Vision and Wanda are on rotation tonight, anyway, and the theater’s only 45 minutes -- 30 the way I drive. You want in?” 

Steve thought of the paperwork he’d been preparing to tackle that afternoon, his usual daily threat meetings with the rest of the administration, the high-intensity, short-time training circuit he was hoping to test out with some medical observation, and then he looked at Rhodes and Sam and felt the relief of their easy smiles and hopeful invitation sink into him, and he said, “Yeah. Just let me grab a shower and maybe some clothes without the logo.” 

“You got any of those?” Sam asked, but it was a teasing tone. 

Steve shrugged, pretending to think about it. “Guess I could always just wear this and the shield.” He put his hands on his waist, affecting his best Captain America pose. 

“I bet we’d get in free,” Sam said, and Rhodes cracked up. 

“I would take a picture of you right now and post it if I didn’t think it would break the Internet,” Rhodes said around a laugh. “And you know how pissed Vision gets when we break the Internet.” 

“Go put some clothes on, man, we’re getting a complex over here,” Sam said, and he winked in a way that Steve was still thinking about when they piled into Rhodes’s truck. 

Sam climbed into the back without being asked, stretching his legs out across the seat comfortably. “Seatbelt?” Steve said, glancing behind him, and Sam laughed. 

“One of you two would catch me,” he said. “I got no worries.” 

“Did they have seat belts in the 40s?” 

“Don’t really know,” Steve admitted. “Didn’t have a car, myself, and in the Army they weren’t exactly standard issue.” 

“Still aren’t,” Rhodes said. 

“They save a lot of lives, though.” 

“You lecturing me?” Sam asked, one hand landing on the seat back next to Steve’s shoulder. “Did you start wearing a helmet on the bike?” 

Steve glanced back. “I’m not even cleared to ride the bike right now.” 

“Oh fine, fine,” Sam said, and Steve heard a satisfying click. 

The movie theater they’d picked out was in the same small town that held Steve’s church, and he knew the girl selling tickets. “Three, please,” he said, pulling out his wallet. “How’s your brother doing, Nicole?” 

“Real good,” she said, handing over three paper tickets. “He’ll be home on leave next weekend. You gonna stay for lunch maybe?” 

“Maybe,” Steve said. “I’d like to meet him. Tell your folks hello.” 

When he stepped back, both Rhodes and Sam were giving him the same amused look. “OK, what now?” he said, looking down at his plain khaki pants and blue shirt. “My underwear’s on the inside and everything.” 

“How do you know that sweet young thing?” Sam asked, voice quiet enough to ensure Nicole couldn’t overhear. 

Steve glared. “Church.” 

“Oh, is that what they’re calling it these days?” Rhodes asked. 

“You really have spent too much time with Tony.” 

He grinned. “That was true after the first time we met. Best friends, though, you know? Yeah, you guys know,” he said, and clapped them both on the shoulders. “So are we sharing popcorn or do we each need our own manly tub?” 

Steve liked the movie. He liked pretty much every movie he’d seen since he’d been out of the ice, though; he hadn’t much chance to see them before the war, and though he’d watched a fair number while he was on the USO tour and trying to kill time, the movies now were nothing like those. They were like watching brilliantly colored comic books, seeing the explosions happen in colors brighter than an actual fire. 

Sam, though, was disappointed in the film. They walked to a little barbecue joint afterwards, where Steve again knew the owner and spent a few minutes catching up on the health and well-being of her aging father. Over plates of steaming ribs and corn on the cob and tangy potato salad, Sam tried to explain. “It’s like playing those war video games. You know? I had a lot of buddies, they came back, they fell right into Call of Duty, and it was comforting to them, but I could never get into it.” 

“It’s a sort-of realistic war video game,” Rhodes explained, and Steve didn’t bother to tell them he knew because one of the church kids had recommended it to him. (He thought it was actually way too violent for a 9-year-old). 

“Yeah. So the movie, it’s like that. Like, once you’ve done it -- it’s just hard not to see where they’re getting it all wrong.” 

Rhodes shrugged. “Suspension of disbelief. It’s the only way to survive once you’re where we are, man. Like, just to get through the fuckin’ day sometimes, I gotta get up and say, OK, this is all crazy but it’s just how it is. This is my life.” 

“I get that,” Sam said. “But you still can’t tell me that climbing a helicopter, mid-flight, doesn’t leave you with a ton of bruises and just sore as all hell. And he’s gettin’ down with his lady later that night?” 

“It does hurt,” Steve said, and the others laughed in a warm, welcoming way. “I mean, I’ve really only done it once. Wait. Twice.” 

“I jumped into that helicopter during the Triskelion collapse, I swear my shoulder gets sore just hearing a chopper overhead,” Sam said. 

“Oh, you wanna talk war wounds…” 

It was a good afternoon. Their lunch conversation devolved into a round-robin of war stories, and somehow, his new un-super status made it an easier conversation to enter. They all got a laugh out of the bruised ass story he’d really never mentioned from the last fight in Sokovia. 

“It’s the nice thing about the suit,” Rhodes said as they walked to the elevators together. “As long as you stay inside, you come home pretty much the same way you went in.” 

“Yeah, but once you’re out --” 

“The trick is to never get out,” Rhodes said. “Which all reminds me, I’ve got a date. Better fire it up if I’m gonna be there on time.” 

“You’re using the War Machine suit to get laid?” 

“Definitely not,” Rhodes said, shaking his head while he checked his phone messages, “definitely not. Just to travel to the place where I’ll get laid. Real hard to clean bodily fluids out of the suit and, you know, it sets a certain expectation --” 

“All right, all right,” Steve said, while Sam laughed helplessly. “Have a good flight, Colonel.” 

“Oh, I always do,” he said. “Thanks for the trip, gentleman.” 

He headed for his elevator, and Sam and Steve waited on theirs. “I guess it’s not really against regulations or anything,” Steve mused aloud as they stepped in, and Sam cracked up again, leaning on the elevator wall. 

“Man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. Or who,” Sam said, smile still broad on his face. 

Steve faced forward, not sure how to respond to that but pretty sure that no response was the best option. “Hey, thanks for the invite, today,” he said as the elevator chimed at their floor. 

“Course, man,” Sam said, briefly squeezing Steve’s shoulder as they walked down the hall. 

“Sorry you didn’t like the movie, though.” 

Sam shrugged, pausing outside of Steve’s door. “I still liked it, but -- it’s hard to realize that maybe it’s all gonna be different now. Like, I used to love Bond, growing up, and now -- I dunno. Guess we all grow up sometime.” 

“Maybe,” Steve said. “Or maybe, you know, give it some time. I have some experience with this. Lots of things change with time, and they change with perspective, too, but, you know, you can kind of -- you learn different ways to appreciate them.” 

Even as he stopped talking, Steve felt embarrassed, like he’d gone on too long or given something away that maybe he shouldn’t have, but Sam just nodded, slow, like he was thinking about it. 

“Anyway,” Steve said, stepping back before he did something (else) stupid. “I should get started on my exciting evening of checking more credit card receipts for common household items that my old friend might have used to kill some modern-day Nazis.” 

Sam smiled. “You want some help with that?” 

“Oh, I,” Steve said, and then didn’t think before he said, “Yeah. I would. I mean -- it’s pretty boring, but --” 

Sam shrugged. “Not like I’ve got a better offer. Might as well do a little spy work myself.” 

“I can at least order pizza.” 

Sam patted his stomach. “Ask me in a few hours. That was some serious stick-to-your-ribs barbecue, even if it wasn’t _real_ barbecue.” 

Steve set Sam up reviewing some of the reports that Vision had marked for personal review: crimes or reports of suspicious activity that had a 70 percent or better match with the parameters he’d set when searching for Bucky nationwide. Sam looked through the files from Philadelphia and D.C., while Steve reviewed Colorado, mostly in Colorado Springs, near the military base, and tried to figure out where Bucky might have gone next based on things like a possible sighting at a hardware store and a receipt from McDonald’s. 

It helped, more than Steve had really thought, to have someone else around during the review. Mostly, it was just boring – looking at half-obscured faces from security video stills, crossing off purchases that didn’t line up – but it helped to share that boredom with someone else. 

“Dude’s good at this,” Sam said, when they finally decided to take a break for pizza after a few hours. “Makes me feel a little better that we never got much closer.” 

“Yeah,” Steve agreed, “and a little worse that he’s this well trained.” He wedged the box that catering had delivered between piles of paper on the kitchen counter. Sam had been working through his files on a tablet at the couch, so Steve joined him there and let Sam pick something to watch on television. To his surprise, he stopped on a channel showing a western just beginning. 

“Silverado?” “

Might be good to take a break from the spy stuff,” Sam said. “It’s not bad. Young Kevin Kline and Danny Glover. You seen it?” 

Steve shook his head. “Heard a lot of westerns on the radio as a kid. Saw Stagecoach when it came out.” 

“When it – right,” Sam said, and shook his head. “Seriously, Rhodes is talking about suspension of disbelief, but that’s gotta be your everyday, huh?” 

Steve watched the movie play across his in-wall television, the sound so crisp and clear through the room’s invisible speakers that it felt like the music was welling inside of his own head. “The trick is just to roll with it.” 

They managed to eat most of the pizza between them, even though Steve wasn’t terribly hungry. His wristband beeped once, around 9 o’clock, drawing’s Sam’s attention. 

“Just time for some meds,” Steve said, shuffling up off the couch. He had his steroids in a pill container by the sink, next to his daily iron supplement. Sam followed him to the kitchen, getting himself a glass of water after Steve did. 

“How’s that all going?” Sam asked, leaning against the counter. “You had a workup today, right?” 

“Right.” Steve choked down his pills, quickly, and washed the taste away with another fast drink. “It’s going OK. They’re gonna get me set up with this new training circuit, uh, think it might be OK. Still high-intensity, but short bursts. That’s better for my asthma.” 

“Uh-huh,” Sam said. “I was surprised you stopped coming to the morning thing. Seemed like you were just starting to build some endurance.” 

Steve knew he made a face. Well, it wasn’t like Natasha had asked him to lie, and he didn’t want to get into that habit with Sam. “We – I thought it might be easier on everyone if, well, if I didn’t come back until I’m ready.” He tried to smile, but Sam shook his head. 

“Who’s we, exactly? Natasha, right?” Steve shrugged, knowing that was an answer. “And who gets to say you’re ready?” he asked, sounding angry. 

“Doctors?” Steve said. “No, Sam, I think she probably has a point. It’s not good for morale to keep reminding everyone of how bad off I am.” He could see Sam wanted to argue, more, but Steve really didn’t. He respected Natasha’s judgment and her request, thought it probably was better for the team that he wait to rejoin until he was running closer to 100 percent. “It’s fine. I’m fine. I mean, I’ve got – there’s plenty to work on before I go back to hand-to-hand.” 

“Yeah? What’d they tell you this morning?” Sam asked as he walked back to the couch. He had paused the movie, and now he picked up the remote from the counter, ready to start it again, even if he didn’t move back to the couch yet. Steve felt bolstered by that, the idea that Sam would stay a little longer. 

“Oh. Mostly, they want to work on adjusting my medications, and the new training thing.” Steve felt the omission lying on his tongue, a lie if he didn’t say it. “They, uh, the doctors think I might need some therapy.” 

“Like PT? They’re great,” Sam said. He’d been through a short round of physical therapy a few months back to treat an hyper-extended hamstring. 

“No, the mental kind,” Steve said, trying to sound casual about it although his insides had twisted a little at the admission. 

Sam just nodded, that same, unsurprised, listening nod. “You gonna take them up on that offer?” 

Steve shrugged. He turned to the fridge to fill his glass again, and facing it, he said, “I can’t decide. I don’t think – they’re worried I’m depressed.” 

“Are you?” Steve turned around, saw Sam was watching him with curious eyes. “I mean, it’s not like you haven’t been goin’ through some stuff.” 

“I don’t know,” Steve admitted. “Most of the symptoms they talked about, I don’t think it’s mental.” He gestured to the pizza box. “I don’t have the same appetite. Well, you know, I used to burn like 8,000 calories on a slow day. I don’t enjoy the same activities – well, that’s because everything I used to do would just about kill me, now.” 

“Yeah,” Sam said, and he turned to fully face Steve as he said it, “and I get that, man, but – this has been kind of a big deal for you. Even if you’re not textbook depression, might not hurt to have a second opinion. Talk to someone.” 

Steve tried to smile but wasn’t sure if it worked. “Thought that was what I was doing.” 

“Well, I’m someone, and you’ll always get a friendly ear for free here. Problem is, I’m basically always gonna agree with you, and a good counselor is gonna have more to say back.” 

“Well, I’m often right,” Steve said, trying not to smile. 

Sam laughed. “Yeah. Or I’m just as crazy as you are, which means you’ve got another reason to look for better counsel.” 

Steve smiled, and then, quickly, thought, _do not do anything_. Because this warm, comfortable moment with Sam, that was exactly what he’d been missing since the whole hallway, ill-advised-kiss thing had happened. So he kept smiling and virtually sat on his hands, and the rest of the evening was just as calm and comfortable. They finished the movie, and Steve convinced Sam to take the rest of the pizza back to his place. 

“See you tomorrow,” Sam said as he left, clapping Steve warmly on the shoulder, and Steve just nodded and _did not do anything_. 

He counted the whole day as an unqualified success. 

So it really stunk when he woke up with a cold the next day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is my head canon about where the upstate facility is: it's hidden in what everyone thinks is just uninhabitable forest, but they also know there's some kind of old/weird government-ish storage place back there. Small town people talk, right, but only to each other, so when the traffic picks up -- and when they start noticing more flights in and out and flashy cars on the roads and lights in the sky at all hours and sometimes, the sounds of marching in the middle of windless days -- they notice, and it doesn't take them long to figure it out. But by then half the town works at the facility or knows someone who works there, so they don't say anything, they just keep their heads down and figure it's really none of their business. 
> 
> So that's how Steve gets to go to church and the guys can catch a movie and once a month, Natasha and Wanda sneak out to have tea in the back sunporch of an old Latvian grandmother who speaks a dialect of Russian that they both understand and bakes cookies with too little sugar that make them both flashback to childhood.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get worse, quickly.
> 
> Warnings for breathing difficulty and some fatalistic thinking.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Steve muttered, standing at his bathroom sink and staring at himself. Good grief, he even looked sick: red-rimmed and bloodshot eyes despite a decent night’s sleep, slightly pink nose, chapped lips. He hadn’t felt ill the day before, that he could remember. Sure, he’d been tired, but he was always tired these days. He was sure he would have remembered a sniffle, though; he felt like he was always on high alert for potential asthma symptoms. 

A warm shower helped, as did throwing on a sweatshirt over his usual stretchy Avengers workout shirt. Steve was supposed to meet the medical observers at the pool that morning to go over some ideas for an aerobic water exercise routine, which sounded interesting and great and also like something he did not want to do at all that morning. He still made it down to the pool in time. 

“Oh,” Carolyn, one of the nursing assistants said, “if you don’t feel well, we definitely shouldn’t do this.” 

“I think I’m OK,” Steve said, wiping his nose cautiously with his handkerchief. “Maybe it’s just allergies?” 

Carolyn shook her head. “Sir, the air here is so filtered that you’d have to be allergic to, like, oxygen molecules to be really affected. Have you had any fever?” 

“No,” Steve said, trying not to sound defensive. “It’s -- if it’s anything, it’s just a cold. I’m OK.” 

Carolyn gave him an evaluative look that Natasha would have envied. “Uh-huh.” He started to argue a little more, then thought the better of it. He remembered what it had meant to have a cold, back before the serum: he would wind up in the hospital with something worse, pneumonia or bronchitis. “If it is a cold, is there something I should take for it?” 

So he went to the community kitchen that morning carrying a little paper box of reddish-brown pills and instructions to take them about every four hours. Like everything else in his life, they came with the possible side effect of additional anxiety or fatigue, but otherwise, they were state-of-the-art medication. "We can't cure the common cold," Carolyn had told him, "but we damn sure got the best drugs for it." Steve took one as instructed with a glass of water, then switched to coffee and tried to remember what he was going to do that morning. 

Without the training to shape his day, he wasn’t completely sure what to do. He could review the testimony that someone in legal was doubtlessly writing up for him to read on Capitol Hill. That sounded less fun than the cold, actually. Fury wouldn't be available until the threat assessment that afternoon. That left more Bucky research or some team paperwork. Since he’d be seeing the whole team at lunch, Steve decided to catch up on his training reports. 

It didn’t take him too long to discover a few disturbing patterns in those, even through the fog of cold medication and the growing sniffles. Everyone on the team was doing really well; numbers had approved across the board, except for Steve, of course. Wanda’s reaction time to small targets was phenomenal, almost as good as Vision. Both Sam and Rhodes had increased their speed (on foot and in the air), and they’d both also done remarkably well in some recent airborne agility trials. 

Two patterns, though, really confused the Steve. The first was that he had no info on Natasha. While he knew she must have curtailed her own training in order to step up a bit in leadership while he was on limited duty, he didn’t think she’d stopped training altogether. They’d have to talk about it, which would probably be about as successful as talking to a rock, Steve thought. 

The second point of confusion was Rhodes’s residence records. That was a sheet that showed how many days every team member had been in residence at Avengers Tower. Most of them had identical numbers: Steve, Wanda, Natasha, and Vision had all made this place their home. Sam had been around consistently, too, save for a couple of long weekends when he’d visited family and friends back home. That left Rhodes. Steve had no idea where he’d been going, but he sure had missed a lot of training. This was more than flying out for a date here and there: Rhodes had been out of the facility for over half of the last month. 

Steve snagged him after lunch to ask about it. "I didn't think your date was that serious," he said, trying to make it into a joke. 

Rhodes looked genuinely confused. "I thought, uh, I'm sorry, Cap, I thought you knew." 

"Knew about what, exactly?" 

Rhodes scratched his forehead with one thumb, a nervous tick. "I've been developing the West Coast Initiative team with Tony." 

"West Coast Initiative?" Steve felt a flash of annoyance. "We killed that project." 

Rhodes shook his head slowly. "There wasn't an official vote. Fury told me --" 

"Ah," Steve said. "I see. Fury. Of course." 

"I really did think you knew," Rhodes said. "I mean, I got not telling the rest of the team, but I respect the chain of command, man. You know that." 

"I do," Steve said. He was already picturing the fun conversation he'd be having with Stark and Fury later in the day. "Bring me up to speed now. Who'd you recruit?" 

It turned out that Stark had actually started everything when a woman who was, and Steve was trying to understand this, part cat had come to Pepper for help. Tigra, as she was called, was interested in doing a bit of super-hero work, but mostly if it involved cats (or cat-people, which she apparently insisted were everywhere). They’d also recruited a formerly married couple from within SHIELD who apparently, between them, could “kick some serious ass. Especially the lady. Morse.” 

Steve nodded. He’d heard about Mockingbird, but most of the reports of her actions since the fall of the Triskelion were classified. That didn’t make the reports out of his reach, particularly, but it did mean raising some eyebrows to look into them. As he had a team with two supremely ass-kicking women at the moment, he hadn’t investigated her much further. “Thanks,” he said. “This is good information to, ah, have,” and then he sneezed and coughed, just a few dry hacks. 

“You got some Sudafed or something for that?” Rhodes asked. “Sounds kind of nasty.” 

“It’s just a cold.” Steve’s handkerchief, however, would need to be replaced before he hit the threat assessment meeting. 

That was as good an excuse as any to tap out of the community floor for a bit, so he parted ways with Rhodes and started toward the elevator. Sam jogged up, sweat across his brow. “Cap, we could use your help,” he said, and Steve stopped, brought up short by the use of the title. Sam really only used that when non-Avengers were around or when he was in a sticky situation. 

Before he could even ask what had happened, he heard a screech and an accented wail that could only be Wanda. He took off after Sam and reached the lunch room just as Natasha was wrestling Wanda to the floor with an arm pinned behind her back. 

“Stop!” Steve said, voice full but hoarse, and Natasha didn’t look up. “What’s going on?” 

Wanda snapped her head up, face red from the strain of fighting Natasha, though her eyes were clear. “Tell her to get off of me!” 

“I just did,” Steve said. “Romanoff! That’s an order!” 

Now, Natasha did look up, and her eyes narrowed before she abruptly let Wanda free and stepped back. Wanda stumbled forward and barely caught herself before her head could collide with the floor -- which had probably been Natasha’s intent. Wanda turned and sat on the floor, leaning back on her arms. It would look like an open, even vulnerable position to most people, but Steve saw it for what it was: an acknowledgment that she didn’t need to take an aggressive posture to be a threat. 

“What is going on? What’s --” Steve sneezed “-- this all about?” 

“ _This_ ,” Natasha said, “is about one of us breaking her oath during training.” 

“I did not,” Wanda said, but she didn’t sound too convincing. 

“Sit down, both of you, at the table. Far away from each other,” Steve said, pointing them to opposite ends. “Now, I want to hear what happened. From Sam,” he said, and Sam frowned. 

“Why do I have to be in the middle of this? I was just mindin’ my own business, getting a sandwich,” he said, grumbling, but he told the story in short order anyway. Steve let Wanda and Natasha add details as necessary, and finally figured out what had taken place. 

Natasha and Wanda had agreed to meet in the Training Simulator that morning to work on a few scenarios together. Steve couldn’t tell if this was Natasha’s attempt to bolster her relationship with Wanda or if it had been a setup from the start. Either way, things had gone poorly: stressed out by Natasha’s demands and the intricate hostage scenario she had derived, Wanda had lashed out in a way that had sent some mental energy directly at Natasha. 

She swore it had been an accident, a momentary lapse in control. Natasha said it had been deliberate and should count as an abuse of power. They’d all pledged not to use their powers against each other. It was in the by-laws. 

“I don’t like to throw that charge around,” Steve said, quietly, when Natasha had finished explaining her case. She hadn’t said what the mental energy had evoked, but she didn’t really have to. Even Steve could see she looked bad, shaken, pale, and if it was that clear, she must have really been stung. 

“It’s a sanction, not a dismissal,” Natasha said. “And Wanda’s control has been impeccable for the last month. You’ve made it through higher-stress --” 

“You underestimate yourself,” Wanda said. “That was the most stressful exercise I’ve encountered since Sokovia fell.” 

“What exactly,” Steve said, and then sneezed mightily, “did you set up?” 

“Distraction exercise,” Natasha said, tossing it off casually, but Sam cursed behind him. 

Steve got it, then. Distraction was a code name for the type of exercise where someone would be hit by two problems at once: one that was actually distraction, and one that was a serious problem. They were nearly impossible exercises to complete with a feeling of success, and as such, they were some of the most realistic. 

The last time Steve had run a Distraction program, it had starred Bucky and a school bus full of children about to be run down by a train, and Steve had needed to make a choice about who survived. 

“Seriously?” 

“It wasn’t a fair test,” Wanda said. “None of that is fair for me. I don’t work like you do, with my hands,” and she sneered as she spoke the last word, glaring at Natasha. 

“Someday you might have to,” Natasha said, and she gestured to Steve. 

“Thanks,” Steve said, and coughed to clear his throat. “Look, for what it’s worth, I agree with you both. The programs aren’t a good test for your mental abilities, Wanda, but they are a good way to work with your physical barriers, and we will definitely meet some characters you can’t influence up here.” He waved at his own head. 

“Steve?” Sam said, and Steve shook his head. He knew what Sam was going to say. His last round in Distraction had been rough enough he’d sworn off of it for a few days. Steve thought he’d had some nightmares. 

“But Natasha, you know that’s not a good pick for her. Training here is supposed to be realistic, sure --” 

“Realistic? You think any of that was real?” Wanda had stood, now, and was leaning on the table, her hands beginning to flicker red around the fingertips. “The only reason you threw that at me was --” 

“You need to calm down right now,” Natasha said, not standing, but her entire body was a taut string. “Losing control again won’t --” 

“I did not lose control!” Wanda snapped, and a red bolt zinged from her flicked hand, which Natasha neatly deflected with a metal plate. Steve didn’t think; he launched himself in front of Sam, taking the hit of Wanda’s hex as it crackled through the air. 

“Steve!” 

Sam’s yell surprised him as it rattled through his chest. They’d landed hard on the ground, Steve over Sam, so now he was laying half over Sam’s chest and half on the cold lunchroom floor. 

“Oh no! No, I am so sorry,” Wanda said, already on her knees beside them. She held out trembling hands. “Are you hurt?” 

“I don’t think so,” Steve said. He pushed up from Sam and shook out his aching wrist, certain he’d re-injured his already sore hand, but not yet feeling anything else. 

Vision appeared as if from nowhere, standing just behind Wanda. He rested a hand on her shoulder. “I believe that is what you’d call a ‘lucky shot,’ Captain.” 

It took Steve just a moment to figure out what he meant. Apparently, the hex had hit his medical wristband dead-on. Apart from a little friction burn from where the band had spun, Steve had escaped unscathed. Even the flickering lights on the band seemed to be the same as usual. “It’s OK,” he said, gripping Wanda’s shoulder briefly. “But tomorrow, why don’t we make some time to talk through your training plan together.” 

She nodded. “I would like that.” Unspoken went her request to exclude Natasha from the meeting, and Steve was glad; he would have to think about her role with Wanda a little bit more. 

Sam offered him a hand up and he took it. “I’m headed upstairs for a bit,” Steve said, “but I’ll see you at Threat Assessment.” 

“And Bingo night,” Sam said, and Rhodes laughed. 

“Is it Bingo again?” Steve asked. The A-Bar did Throwback Tuesdays once a month, where they offered drinks at special low prices and often had some kind of “old fashioned” entertainment. Steve felt vaguely flattered by the whole idea, which he’d been told was at least partly in tribute to his own origins. Their fake USO show had been surprisingly entertaining last month. 

“You bet,” Sam said. “First card’s on me. For anyone.” 

Steve nodded. He couldn’t right now imagine that he’d have the energy to participate in that, but he hoped he would. Maybe another night with his teammates -- his friends -- would lift his spirits, and he’d have one more chance to show Sam he wasn’t some kind of leering advantage-seeker. 

“I’ll walk you up,” Natasha said, and Steve nodded. 

In the elevator, Natasha said, “She’s a loose cannon.” 

“Yeah, but who here really isn’t?” Steve asked. He rolled his wrist around. It didn’t feel too bad. “What’s really your problem with her?” 

“That’s my problem,” Natasha. “She has a power she can’t even fully explain whose effects she’s not able to control. She doesn’t seem to mind using it against us. Or have you forgotten?” 

Peggy, in his arms, telling him he could come home. The band playing something nice and slow. Men dying while he stood by, decommissioned, helpless. “I haven’t forgotten,” Steve said, “but I’m surprised to hear you of all people aren’t willing to give her a second chance.” 

Natasha rolled her eyes so hard Steve was surprised the elevator didn’t jolt. As they landed on his floor, she said, “I’m still working on giving her a first try.” 

He coughed. “Barton likes her.” 

“Yeah, well, he’s got shitty taste in women. Except Laura.” 

“And you.” 

Natasha’s lips pressed hard together for a moment, but she didn’t agree. “Look, you’ve seen her training specs.” 

“Yeah,” Steve said, “which is more than I can say for you. What gives?” 

“Don’t change the subject.” 

“The subject is my team,” Steve said, “so this isn’t changing the subject. Natasha, you’ve had cancelled appointments at the simulation pod all week. What’ve you been doing instead?” 

“Lifetime movies.” 

Steve blinked. “Um. Whose lifetime?” 

“It’s a -- never mind,” she said, and as if for the first time, Steve saw how tired she looked, how worn and weary. 

“Natasha,” he said, stopping outside of his own door. “Just talk to me.” 

She looked past him, staring at the wall. “Did you know they called in Banner?” 

Steve sighed, sneezed, and then pulled out his disgusting handkerchief. “You better come in,” he said, mopping his nose. 

Inside, after he’d exchanged his handkerchief for a fresh one (and a spare because it seemed like that kind of day), he sat with Natasha at the bar while she drank coffee she’d just made. Steve stuck to orange juice. “Hill told me,” she said. “She thought I knew. You didn’t know, so why would I?” 

He put one hand out, not touching her but close. “I really didn’t know.” 

A spectral smile flitted over her lips, then vanished as she took a sip. “You can’t keep a secret. I know.” 

“Is this -- “ he stopped. He hadn’t even talked to Fury about the West Coast team yet; probably, he should do that before he read Natasha in, though likely, Natasha already knew. “Is this for the, uh, the team Stark’s building?” 

She raised an eyebrow. “Stark’s building a team? Oh. Rhodes,” she said, as if a piece was clicking into place. “You shouldn’t let Stark poach him, by the way. He’s good.” 

“I know,” Steve said. “But if Banner isn’t for that --” 

“For you.” She tipped her head, studying him but also wanting him to know that she was doing it, clearly. “His serum and gamma radiation experiment is pretty much the closest anyone’s ever come to duplicating Erskine’s work. He and Stark designed this stuff. Makes some sense, right?” 

Steve sighed. “I thought he was incommunicado.” 

“Yeah. Well.” Natasha shrugged. “Maybe just for people he didn’t want to talk to.” 

“Oh, that’s bullshit,” Steve said, and Natasha raised an eyebrow. “Come on. You know Fury. He probably put a tracker in him, or paid off the entire government of Fiji or wherever. You can’t honestly think that Bruce Banner wanted to be tracked down by Nick Fury more than he wants to talk to you.” 

“Well, at least with Fury, he knows what his reception will be,” she said, straightening up. Fair point. Steve couldn’t name a country he thought he’d be safe in if he’d broken Black Widow’s heart. “Better make sure there’s clean sheets in the guest room.” 

Steve picked up his glass of juice, then put it back down without drinking it. “Wait, is he really coming in?” 

“Last I heard,” she said. “Guess it’ll be a party this weekend.” 

Steve coughed, and Natasha’s gaze sharpened. “I’m fine,” he said. “I’ve got a cold, but I was at the med pod this morning. Fine.” She nodded, but she looked uncertain. “So at least you’re coping well with this all, huh, and not taking it out on Wanda with a Distraction Scenario.” 

A tiny twitch of a smile raised the side of her mouth, but she covered by drinking. “Did you know she’s hooking up with Vision?” 

“What?” Steve said. Natasha gave him an even stare. “Uh, not to be crude, but, uh, how is that -- I mean, is that even possible?” 

“Apparently,” she said, the smiling fighting through, “Helen’s cradle built an anatomically correct male model.” 

“Oh. Uh. Wow,” Steve said. 

“A Vibranium-enhanced, anatomically correct --” 

“OK, stop, I get it.” Steve rubbed his forehead. “Wow. If he spent his formative years as Tony Stark’s assistant --” 

Natasha laughed. “I’m sure there are parts of that education that were quite comprehensive.” 

Steve could feel his face warming up and a cough rising in his chest. He fumbled around for a minute and remembered he’d put his inhaler down in the bedroom when picking up the new handkerchiefs. Well, he’d get it in a minute. “That is completely something I don’t want to think about. I mean -- it’s fine. I guess? I guess it’s fine.” He shook his head, trying desperately not to imagine how Wanda and Vision would… no. “Should make Bingo night more interesting.” 

“It’s weird,” Natasha said. “But someone should be getting laid around here. And you and Sam are still not... no, you’re not,” she said, confirming by a glance. “Well, this has been a heart-warming chat.” 

“Yeah, drop in anytime,” Steve said, but then caught Natasha’s shoulder as she got up. “You know I mean that, right?” 

She smiled, one of those gone-in-a-flash smiles that Steve had to believe were genuine. “I know,” she said, and squeezed his biceps back. “Get some rest. Threat assessment’s early today.” 

“Oh,” Steve said, shaking his head, “I’ve got no time for rest.” 

* * *

He met with Fury at 3, an hour before the threat assessment was scheduled. Fury didn’t exactly have a secretary or an assistant; he had a few people who seemed to always know where he was, and one kid in particular who handled his schedule, but Steve knew that part of the way Fury worked was to keep everyone guessing and half-informed. So he didn’t take it personally when 2 out of the 3 people he passed tried to insist that their boss wasn’t behind the black-tinted doors. At least the last line of defense, a boyish woman sitting behind a titanium desk that probably concealed a rocket launcher, just said, “I’ll let him know you’re here.” 

He cooled his heels for about 45 seconds before the door swung open of its own accord. Inside, Fury was standing at his desk, frowning. “Is there anything you want to tell me?” Steve asked, walking in. The cold was already settling into his chest, making his voice a lower growl than usual. 

“That’s a nice polo shirt,” Fury said. He stepped around the desk and took a seat in one of the arm chairs clustered around a low, dark table. Steve stood behind another chair but didn’t sit. “Blue’s nice on you. Brings out your eyes. Wilson like that?” 

“Sure,” Steve said. “We have team meetings now about what I should wear. Might as well, since I’m obviously not invited to the meetings about what actually matters.” Fury looked amused, and that made Steve even angrier. “Were you ever going to tell me?” 

“Well, forgive me, Cap, but you’ve been a little tied up the last few weeks.” 

“That excuse is pretty thin even for you.” Steve crossed his arms. “We voted West Coast Avengers down.” 

“And that’s not what’s going on,” he said. “I communicated that decision to Stark, just like I said I would.” 

“Right,” Steve said. “Because he always takes no so well.” 

Fury flicked one hand in a shrug. “Superheroes. Can’t reason with ‘em, can’t shoot ‘em.” 

Steve coughed, and Fury briefly looked a little less smug. “Not to be a broken record here, but I can’t actually run a team if --” 

“I didn’t ask anyone on your team to lie to you,” he said. 

“Lies of omission still count. I know your rules are different.” 

“My rules,” Fury said, leaning forward, “exist to keep us all safe and alive.” 

“And my rules are pretty simple, Nick.” Steve crossed his arms, voice going gravelly as he tried to talk around his congestion. “If you don’t want me to lead this team anymore, then say the word. Otherwise, if you want to send someone out on a mission, then I get a say. Particularly when they’re recruiting our competition.” 

Fury’s hands turned, palms out, his version of reassuring. “No one wants to compete with the Avengers, Cap.” 

“Right,” Steve said. “That’s why Tony Stark, master of compromise, is in charge.” 

“This beef between the two of you is getting pretty old. He’s not actually a bad guy.” 

“I know that,” Steve said. “But he’s got some pretty funny ways of showing his good side.” 

Fury said, “Well, we all have our challenges.” 

“Including Bruce Banner. I hear we’re having company this weekend.” 

“You hear everything.” 

“Not from you,” Steve said, and Fury grinned. 

“You’re gettin’ the hang of this,” he said. “Yes, I’ve asked Dr. Banner to consult with us. Sounded like they might need an extra set of hands in the medical labs right now. I hear you’re building up some frequent flyer miles.” 

Steve squeezed the chair cushions between his hands for something to do. He suppressed a cough because he didn’t have time to see Fury get worried again. “It’s a mistake, bringing him here.” Fury’s eyebrows raised. “He’s not going to have a cure, and --” he started, then decided it would be better not to even mention Natasha’s problem. 

But of course, he was see-through to the spies on his team. “Romanoff, huh? That’s a little bit sweet of you.” 

“Is he staying long?” 

Fury shrugged. “Depends on whether we need him.” It felt clear from his tone that Fury thought they needed him permanently, and Steve had a sudden, sinking feeling that Banner might not have anywhere left to go if he came back now. 

“Is it even safe for him to be stateside right now?” Steve walked over to the windows and leaned against a support beam, mostly because the entire conversation was wearing him down. “That session didn’t go so well in D.C.” 

Fury shrugged. “It’s legal enough.” 

“So this is an unofficial visit.” 

Fury gave him a level stare. “Anyone check your passport the last time you flew out of country?” Fair enough. “I’m still gonna need you to go down and talk to the folks in Washington again.” 

“Well, there’s something to look forward to.” Steve idly rubbed his forehead, where a mild headache was starting. It was probably time to take another decongestant. “I’m so sick of this,” he said. 

“I’m sure they’re gonna get you fixed up. We got lots of tricks up our sleeves.” 

Steve glared over at him. “That’s not what I meant. I meant, I’m tired of having this conversation with you. I want Stark here, this weekend, and I want to hear everything about this team. If I’m not read in on it, then I’m considering it competition.” 

“Duly noted, Captain.” 

“And --” Steve stood up straight, surprised by how tired he felt. “And I need to know, Nick, if you’re losing confidence.” 

“In what?” 

“Me,” Steve said. 

Now Fury stood up, crossing his arms. “In you.” 

“My leadership,” Steve said. 

Fury snorted. “Oh, believe me, you will be the first to know if I have doubts.” He walked back to his desk. “You have any doubts?” 

“I think good leaders always have some doubts,” Steve said, and Fury met his eyes for just a minute, then looked back at his spotless desktop. “Strategy, tactics, I’m fine. But I can’t get out in front, not for a while.” He left unsaid _maybe not ever_ , but Fury knew that. He knew everything. 

“I got plenty of front line candidates around here,” Fury said. “Hey, how’s your homework going?” 

“Not bad.” Steve made himself talk through the progress he’d made on the search for Bucky, which was currently dead-ending in Colorado. There were a few flickers of interesting information closer to home, but even with Vision scanning the results, they hadn’t turned up anything above a 50 percent likely match in the Tri-State area for the last month. 

“Keep me posted,” Fury said. 

“Is it too much to ask you the same thing?” 

“Hey, I’m a changed man,” Fury said. 

“Right,” Steve said, gesturing to the blank front of his office door. “You’re not even the director. You ever going to explain that?” 

“Soon,” Fury said, a smile sneaking across his face. “I’ll talk to Stark.” 

“Thanks.” He left knowing he’d need to ask Rhodes to talk to Stark, as well. That was a connection he needed to strengthen because Natasha was right: He didn’t want to lose Rhodes to Stark’s new team. Besides that, if he was going to be sitting at home during whatever was coming, it wouldn’t be bad to develop a few more intel operatives of his own. 

It all sounded so exhausting, though. Steve leaned on the elevator wall as he rode down to the main Avengers floor. He’d get through the Threat Assessment, then maybe grab a snack and rest for a bit. He wondered if the decongestants were piling on top of his existing anemia to make him so tired, then remembered he needed to take a new dose. 

Before he could do that, though, he ran into Vision in the hallway. “Captain, I wanted to apologize,” Vision said, and Steve slowed his pace. 

“For…?” 

“I apologize that it didn’t occur to me to make clear to you the change in my relationship with Ms. Maximoff,” he said. He sounded puzzled but also, Steve thought, mildly embarrassed, which was a new tone. 

Steve shrugged, wondering how, exactly, Vision knew that he knew. “As long as it’s not going to have an effect on the team, I don’t really need to know.” 

Vision nodded, looking thoughtful. “I don’t know what effect it may have,” he said. “So far, I believe the experience has been largely positive for both of us.” As they walked into the conference room, Vision said, “I feel as though there are several unpredictable outcomes possible.” 

Steve saw Sam lounging in a chair near the head of the table, next to the seat that would be his. He was tipped back on two legs, and when he looked over and saw Vision and Steve walk in, he grinned. Steve’s chest tightened. 

“I know what you mean,” Steve said, and smiled back at Sam. “It’s fine. Just, uh. If you have any questions or, uh, concerns, let me know.” 

“Of course, sir.” 

“As a friend,” Steve said, pausing, putting a hand on Vision’s arm. It was still strange sometimes to feel how warm Vision was; he looked so oddly metallic sometimes, and yet it felt like just reassuring anyone else, the same solid curve of muscle under his hand. 

_Anatomically correct_ , he remembered Natasha saying, and then he shuddered. “OK, let’s get started,” he said, striding up to the front and ignoring Sam’s questioning look. 

Fury and Hill had deigned to attend in person that afternoon, which Steve took as either a promising sign of recognition about his displeasure or a completely empty gesture to try and placate him. What a knife’s edge, he thought, as Hill started giving the usual run-down. 

The meeting went on forever. The underground group that had been worrying them showed some signs of expansion recently. Their leader, Ernie Balko, had been a mostly small-time criminal hustling stolen credit cards until he’d been promoted into technical work for Hydra. Before the Triskelion collapse, he’d been a cog in the technology wheel. After its fall, he’d graduated to his own small syndicate of computer hackers and ne’er-do-wells. 

They’d still been too small of a problem to blip on the Avengers’ radar until Balko had traded a cache of stolen identities for some surplus Hydra weaponry. The guns had been big enough that Steve and Vision had paid Balko and crew a visit one evening. In the ensuing fight, Balko had been seriously injured, though not captured (the rest of his team had been, but Balko managed to get away). Since then, he hadn’t popped up much on the scene — but when he had, it had been in the company of ruthless killers and operators. That was such a significant change from his old rag-tag team that Fury had become worried. At least one of the weapons that Steve and Vision had gone looking for hadn’t surfaced, either, which added to Fury’s concern. 

They didn’t have a hard and certain location for Balko’s crew, yet, but “when we do, I think this might be your kind of op,” Fury said. 

Steve flicked through the thin intel they had on Balko and his new associates so far. They had at least one enhanced among their numbers, though no one could completely figure out his powers. “It can’t be that hard to find a guy wearing a bright green helmet,” Sam said, glancing at the photo of Balko. “Can it?” 

“It’s a fashion choice,” Hill said, dry, showing a grainy image that appeared to show a flash of short dark hair tufting from the side of the mask. “He’s only wearing it when he wants us to know he’s around.” 

“Great,” Steve said. “So we should strike when we know where they are, but we already know it’s a trap.” 

“And adding to his resume, we think he’s recently been offering a pretty sweet deal to the highest bidder: our internal security encryption key.” 

Rhodes whistled, low. “Bet that can’t come cheap. And if it does, Tony’s gonna be pissed.” 

Fury shrugged. “He’s been shopping the information to a couple of countries that we don’t particularly get along with. They’re gonna say no, and after that, we expect he’ll turn to the even blacker market.” 

“So we gotta find this guy,” Steve said, “before he can sell that stuff. Or --” He sneezed and coughed, then spent a moment fishing for his handkerchief. 

Sam took over. “Or do we even think he really has that information?” 

Fury’s expression remained blank -- too blank, Steve thought. “I’m told it’s damn near impossible to hack our security, but damn near isn’t the same as absolutely. This guy’s smart. Maybe smart enough. I don’t know.” 

“Comforting,” Natasha said. 

“This doesn’t seem so hard,” Wanda said. “I can travel to the city and talk with him.” She wiggled her fingers. 

Fury shook his head. “We’ve got reason to believe he’ll be a little difficult to persuade through your particular methods,” he said. 

“In other words, that helmet isn’t just for fashion,” Steve said. “Great. What else do we know?” 

“Everything we know for sure is in your briefing booklet.” 

“And everything we suspect?” 

Hill sighed. Fury said, “When we know where he is, we’ll go get him and ask.” 

“Sounds like a good time.” Steve sniffled, then excused himself to blow his nose outside. When he came back in, Fury was saying, “...he’s only consulting as a scientist.” 

“For now,” Rhodes said, tone both expectant and resigned. He’d probably spent more time with Banner than Steve ever had; Banner had apparently vacationed out in California with Stark after the New York invasion, before they’d all shifted to Stark Tower. “How’d you find him?” 

“Good old fashioned detective work,” Fury said. “The rest of it isn’t appropriate for open discussion.” 

“There’s some words I love,” Sam said. 

“Join the party,” Steve said. “Look. Dr. Banner’s been pretty clear about his desire to remain out of conflict, and I think the risks are also pretty clear if we try to engage him. He’s a valuable ally and a friend. Whatever the hidden agenda is here, I’m completely on the level when I say I’m grateful for his help and I don’t want anything else from his visit. When he wants to leave, we’ll do everything we can to make that possible.” He looked over at Natasha, noticed the tension in her jaw, but appreciated that she met his eye. “And let’s not forget this is a top-secret visit.” 

“To our top-secret facility,” Rhodes said, and he grinned. “So I should tell Tony to stay off Twitter.” 

“Good luck,” Hill said. “Last time I tried, he sent me a virus that made my computer start speaking cat.” 

“Cat?” 

She meowed and made a clawing hand, and everyone laughed. “Do we want to talk about Stark’s trip now?” Fury asked, raising an eyebrow at Steve, and Steve wanted to say no. He was tired, he needed a decongestant and, he was starting to suspect, he’d under-dosed on his inhaler so far that day. His chest was tight. But seven faces looked over at him, expecting him to take charge, and he said, voice still gravelly and low, “Better bring everyone up to speed.” 

That took a grueling forty-five minutes. All of the questions Steve had rattling around in his brain about Stark’s additional Avengers plan apparently appeared, fully formed, in his teammates’ minds, and Rhodes had the uncomfortable job of trying to represent the idea while looking like he didn’t entirely buy in, either. Fury gave little hint of his own role in the entire plan, but he did seem to know quite a bit about the logistics and membership. 

“Let’s just save all of this up and put it to Stark when he gets here this weekend,” Steve said. 

Rhodes said, “I think he’s in Geneva.” 

“I think he’ll come back,” Steve muttered, and then coughed a few times into his handkerchief. 

“OK, let’s wrap this before we all catch Cap’s typhoid,” Hill said, and the group broke up pretty quickly. Steve nodded his thanks across the table and folded his now-useless backup handkerchief back into his pocket. 

“No Bingo for you,” Sam said, one hand resting warmly on Steve’s shoulder. 

“Probably not a good idea,” Steve agreed. He didn’t want to mention that his throat already felt tight. Why hadn’t he brought the damn inhaler down with him? He grabbed a water bottle from a little catering basket and took a few chugs. “Sorry to miss it, though.” 

Sam shrugged. “I can always bring the party to you later.” Steve nearly choked on his water, and Sam laughed. “I just figured I could haul up some dinner after I finish sweeping the prizes, and we can dig through a little more of your side project.” 

“That would be great,” Steve said. “I’m surprised you aren’t gonna try and order me to bed, though.” 

Now Sam raised an eyebrow, and Steve blushed. “I don’t think I have that authority, particularly,” Sam said, “but I figure even though you look like a warm cup of death, you’re gonna find someway to stay up too late doing serious business. Probably better for all of us if you’ve got someone nudging you to take a break now and then.” 

“Fair enough.” Steve shook his head. He was so tired he felt dizzy, and although he knew the spirit of what Sam had said was true, he was already picturing the enveloping comfort of his own bed. “Call me whenever you’re done. Or, text. You know where I’ll be.” 

“I figure I do.” 

Steve held it together for the walk down the hall, but in the elevator, it was all he could do to keep standing. Probably, somewhere, one of Fury’s trainee agents was watching him lean full-body against the side panel and press his face to the cool metal, and maybe it was triggering an alarm, but Steve thought they couldn’t watch everywhere, all the time. He just needed to get to his room. 

The hallway was long and seemed to be fading in and out of color as he walked. The door opened easily, and he stumbled briefly getting down into the living room, then again getting up to the kitchen. He found the decongestants and the other collection of medications he was supposed to be taking and gathered them all up, then staggered into his bedroom. He took the pills first, then gave himself two shots on the inhaler for good measure, hearing the hard wheeze on the end of his own breath. Even the caffeine-like spike of the inhaled medication couldn’t keep his eyes open, and he fell asleep still fully clothed. 

He woke into full darkness, under the heavy feeling of something being wrong. Panic flooded his chest, and he spent a moment disoriented, listening to the rattle of his breathing, not sure where or when he was. Then he saw the face of his phone light up and realized the whirring of its vibrate mode had woken him, and he remembered the meeting, his cold, Sam’s offer, and he groped clumsily for it. 

_Chicken noodle soup OK? Lita’s giving me orders. Should be up in 10 if you’re still awake._

Steve sat up slowly, aching everywhere. He thumbed in _Sounds good thx_ and then reached for the inhaler. It surprised him that the med pod folks hadn’t beaten down his door already; he couldn’t imagine his readings were good. Probably, though, he just felt awful because he had a good old-fashioned cold. 

He’d managed to drag himself to the living room by the time Sam arrived, but he couldn’t even get up off the couch to greet him. “I brought some company,” Sam said as he pushed the door open, “and some beer, though I wasn’t sure if you were up for that.” 

As Sam stepped into the living room, Steve saw on his face how bad he must have looked. “Whoa,” Sam said, setting a six-pack of beer and a plastic container on the end table. He crouched in front of Steve, and Steve tried to draw a breath. “Steve?” Sam gripped his arm. “Where’s your inhaler?” 

Steve uncurled his other fist, revealing the canister. “Already. Twice,” he said. It wasn’t enough, though; he could tell this was going to be bad. His heart was racing beneath his struggling lungs. This felt different than his earlier attacks, he thought, and the same. The cold. Oh, great. 

Air wouldn’t come. Time didn’t exactly slow down, but for a minute or two, Steve felt almost like his old focus had returned, like he could suddenly see five or six things at once: Natasha coolly calling for the medics, Wanda’s eyes flashing amber-red, Rhodes sprinting out the door, and Sam. Sam. Steve focused on Sam, who had gripped him by the shoulders and was saying something, something that must be serious. Steve tried to nod, but his head was so heavy. 

“Don’t just nod at me, take a fucking breath,” Sam said, and one of his hands slid over and held the back of Steve’s neck for a moment. 

“Try-ing,” Steve said. He was going to have to set his head down in a minute. “Sam.” 

“For fuck’s sake, don’t make him talk,” Natasha said. 

Two strong hands suddenly gripped his shoulders from behind. Steve was gasping so hard he wanted to vomit. “I believe you may also be experiencing some heart problems,” Vision said, and Steve closed his eyes. 

A second later, or a minute, stinging pain in his face made him open them. He was lying flat on the floor, and he wasn’t sure how he’d gotten there. His shirt was loose, his legs propped in Sam’s lap. Vision knelt on one side, and Wanda was hovering on the other, holding her hand from where she’d probably just slapped him. 

“No sleeping,” she said, and Steve blinked, then tried to suck in some air, any air. Wanda was holding his hand, he realized, cradling it between both of hers now. 

The medics swept in and moved everyone back. They had a portable breathing machine, and Steve had a mask over his nose and mouth in seconds, a shot in the arm just after that, and then an IV flowing. They lifted him onto a gurney. He still couldn’t breathe and he realized, in a gut-churning jolt, that he was scared. His team had backed away to the corner, or he thought they had -- he could barely see anything through his blurred eyes. 

“Help,” Steve said, a futile pant against his mask, and he didn’t know who he was asking. 

A grayish fog settled in the corner of his vision, and he felt its gravity, too, a weight dragging him toward what wasn’t really sleep. “We need to _go_ ,” someone said urgently, and Steve’s head pounded with the effort of trying to draw in air. He had to close his eyes. The bright world took too much energy, and he could only think about breathing. 

“I got you,” Sam said, and he felt his touch through the sleeve of his shirt. 

“Steve, it’s gonna be fine,” Natasha said from his other side, gripping his hand. 

He didn’t believe her, but he was so grateful they were there. 

In the med pod, they shot him up with something new and even more serious. They put him on a different breathing machine, one with a strange mix of air, and he still couldn’t catch his breath. 

As the minutes wore on, someone said they might need intubation, a ventilator, and Steve shivered, full-body, at that mention. “Wait,” he managed, and Sam put one hand on his shoulder. He’d been there the whole time. Natasha, too, and Wanda and Vision somewhere, and he’d heard Rhodes’s voice a couple of times, maybe even Fury. 

“They’re gonna talk to you about anything they do,” Sam said. “Your oxygen levels aren’t coming back up so well, though.” 

“Cold.” 

“I can get you a blanket,” Sam said, and Steve grabbed his shirt between two fingers. 

“Have. Cold.” 

“He was sneezing in the conference room,” Rhodes said. “Said he’d taken something for it, though.” 

“Cold medicine is contraindicated for someone with high blood pressure,” Vision said. 

Something beeped. Steve dragged in more of the medicated air. His hand was still tangled in Sam’s shirt, and he didn’t move it. Time warped again, bending around him so he was still struggling to breathe and hearing the nurses babble worriedly and drowning, and then the room was still and he was wheezing but a little better, and it was all happening at once but also it was over. It could have been minutes. It could have been hours. 

Steve drew a shaky, shallow breath, pulled off his mask, leaned over the side of his hospital bed, and retched. 

“I’m putting in for overtime, just so you know,” Natasha said, climbing up into the bed and grabbing him by the shoulders. Steve heaved again, and then fell back into the bed, barely missing squashing Natasha. Her thigh pressed against his shoulder, warm and solid. Steve couldn’t hear anyone else in the room. 

“I’m so sick,” Steve said, and his voice cracked as he said it. It hurt to talk. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to think about how much it all hurt. 

“You’re gonna be OK,” she said, her hand resting briefly on his forehead. 

“No, I’m not,” he said, and closed his eyes before he let anything else loose.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recovery is the worst. Then add Tony Stark to the mix.

He found out later he’d been drugged out of his mind. They’d basically hepped him up on steroids and tranquilizers to get the asthma attack under control, and they still weren’t sure exactly what had happened. Garcia came in and told him his readings had been all over the place. Briefly, in the middle of it all, there had been some great surge, right as he’d been on the edge of consciousness, when they’d been hovering with the ventilator. They’d thought for a moment that maybe the old serum was going to kick in. “So the good news is your heart seems OK.”

“My heart.”

“Well,” Garcia said, folding her hands. “You were nearly in cardiac arrest. At that moment -- I really don’t know.” She leaned forward. “You must have been feeling the effects all day, Captain. This was the final stage in a very prolonged attack. We’re -- I won’t say we’re lucky, but if we didn’t have the facilities we do, this could have ended very badly.”

“Why didn’t,” Steve said, and then gave a weak cough. He tapped his empty wrist. “My monitor?”

Garcia’s eyes narrowed. “I understood it was broken in an… altercation yesterday.”

Oh. Right. Steve let his eyes slide closed. They still had him wearing a mask, and he was so tired it felt like the thin hospital blanket was actually holding him down. He heard Garcia say she’d be back to check on him, and then he was left alone again. At least, for a few minutes, until Sam and Natasha appeared together.

“Sorry, guys,” Steve said, managing to open his eyes for a few minutes.

“We trashed your apartment,” Natasha said, tone too cool. “Drank all of your beer, broke all of your lame old-guy records, downloaded a bunch of porn to your computer. So we’re about even.”

“I do not like seeing you here,” Sam said, and he sat beside the bed and grabbed one of Steve’s hands between both of his own. How was Sam always so warm? The heat of his touch traveled up Steve’s bones and made his throat tighten in a way that wasn’t related to his asthma. “I need you to cut this shit out.”

“Trying.”

“Nah, man,” Sam said. “I know what it’s like when you try.”

Steve managed a little smile. “Try harder,” he promised.

But that was easier said than done. He was being kept in whatever was the equivalent of the Intensive Care Unit, monitored at all times, under the influence of a few powerful drugs. His cold already showed signs of progressing into at least bronchitis, which the doctors seemed gravely concerned about. He had three minor asthma attacks the day after his big episode, and they kept him hooked to oxygen all the time. A portable ventilator hung in the corner of the room, a threat and a balm all at the same time.

He spent three days there. Everyone visited. Wanda and Vision came together and sat at his bedside, his arm around her shoulders; Rhodes brought a bag of malted milk balls, one of Steve’s favorites, and a book of crossword puzzles and, tucked inside of that, about ten pages of intel reports on the new West Coast members. Natasha brought cards and drew in anyone who stopped by so “I’ll have some actual competition, because you’re a pathetic pitch player.” (Maria Hill turned out to be a card shark, which was no surprise but seemed to raise her in Natasha’s esteem).

Sam brought a movie and a couple bottles of decent root beer and stayed even once Steve had fallen asleep, his hand casually resting on Steve’s biceps. Steve knew this only because he woke up, briefly, just long enough to look over and see Sam paging through his phone one handed, and Sam squeezed his arm without ever looking up. “It’s all right,” Sam murmured. “Go on back to sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

Bruce Banner walked in the morning of the third day, and Steve was so surprised to see him he briefly thought he was hallucinating. “Nobody told you?” Banner said, standing at the edge of the room, wringing his hands.

“Uh, they did. Before,” Steve said, and tried to clear his throat. His voice was just permanently gravelly these days, between the lingering bronchitis and the strain in his throat from so many attacks.

Banner nodded. “I think the information they have from the other night could be promising. The way – you almost came back.”

Steve laughed, which made him cough, and then he had to lie flat and breathe slowly and a nurse still came in to hover and adjust his air mix. “Yeah,” he finally managed, “almost.”

Banner frowned. “Look. Steve. I just — I never, when we were developing this, I never thought, I had no idea it would be used like this. I had no idea it was even effective. I’m, I’m really sorry. Really sorry. I just —“

“It’s OK,” Steve said. Really, he didn’t feel angry at Banner, or Stark, not for this. They hadn’t been scheming to end him; they probably hadn’t even intentionally let SHIELD see what they were working on, nor had they known that SHIELD and Hydra were one and the same. Steve’s hands weren’t exactly clean from that unholy melding, and he wasn’t about to beat up his own team over unintentional mistakes. “Nice to see you.”

Banner snorted. “Well. At least someone thinks so.”

Natasha didn’t mention Banner when she visited after lunch, and Rhodes didn’t say whether Stark was already in residence or not. Steve tried to ask, but Rhodes said, “Listen, I want to tell you, but Fury’s been pretty clear. Ears everywhere.” He glanced at the walls. “So, you a baseball fan? I can’t remember.”

When Sam came in that night, he put two cold root beer bottles on the table by the bed, then picked up the remote and started flipping through choices. “You’re getting out tomorrow,” he said. “They tell you already?”

“No one tells me anything,” Steve said, staring at the ceiling. “Fury told everyone to keep me out of the loop, huh?”

“No, your doctors told us that,” Sam said, falling into the recliner by the bed. “Fury might have put some emphasis behind it.” He leaned forward, and his hands fell onto the bed, making Steve turn enough to see Sam’s face. He purposely didn’t scoot closer just to brush against him. “You get how close you came to dying, right?”

“Not the first time,” Steve said, shrugging, then wincing a little. “Not even the first time from something like this.”

“Great,” Sam said. “Glad it’s old hat for you. The rest of us – I’ve seen guys die from lots of stuff. Gunshots. IED. RPG,” he said, and there was only the faintest pause after the word that made Steve think, _Riley_. “Planes blown out of the sky, tanks burned. All of that. But this – “ He shook his head. “Steve, it’s so fucking meaningless.”

Steve edged his leg over, just barely, until Sam’s knuckles were tucked right up along his knee. He didn’t know what to say.

“If I’d gone to the basement that night,” Sam said, and he drew one hand back long enough to rub his forehead with two fingers. “I think about that some. The lab says those syringes wouldn’t have done anything to me. You know that? It was – it was just dumb bad luck.”

“You don’t know what could have happened,” Steve said. “No one can. Maybe she would have had a gun.”

“Yeah, and I’ve never survived a run in with one of those before,” Sam said. This time, when his hand landed, it cupped Steve’s knee. “Look,” he said, voice low, words coming out pretty slow, but his eyes meeting Steve’s right on. “I’m pretty serious about this. This has got to stop.”

“Banner is working on it,” Steve said, but Sam shook his head.

“No. Steve. Listen to me. You — you need to work on you.” When he drew his hand back, Steve almost reached for it. He hated the hospital so much.

“I am trying,” Steve said.

“You just didn’t notice your throat was closing up all day?” Sam said. “Seriously?”

“Thought it was the cold.”

Sam sighed. “And even then, man, you still showed up for every meeting, got in the middle of a fight, probably would’ve run a marathon if you’d had a chance.”

Steve shifted in his uncomfortable bed, self-consciously adjusting the oxygen line on his face. “What do you want me to do?”

“Talk to someone,” Sam said. “You said your doctors were telling you the same thing. Now I’m telling you.”

“What for?” Steve said. “You think I need a head-shrinker to tell me I can’t do my job anymore?”

“I think you need to talk to someone,” Sam said, looking right at him, expression flat, “because I’m not totally convinced it’s just your job you’re thinking about quitting.”

And that — that hurt. That felt pretty bad. Steve took a shallow breath. “I wasn’t trying to, that’s not,” he said, and he shook his head. He thought he should be angry, that Sam would think he was like that, suicidal, but he just felt sad and a little afraid.

“Uh-huh,” Sam said, and he turned to face the television but didn’t spin up the disc yet.

Steve took a couple of careful breaths. This would cost him nothing, he thought, and if it meant Sam wouldn’t think he was that kind of sick, well, it would be worth it. As much as it hurt to think Sam really believed Steve needed help this badly, it was also, kind of, nice to have someone looking out for him. “OK,” Steve said, and he tentatively, so warily, put his hand out and touched Sam’s shoulder. “I’ll talk to someone.”

Sam nodded, and Steve squeezed his shoulder and pulled his hand back. It shocked him how sad and upset he still felt, how hard it was to concentrate as the movie began to run above his bed. Tears blurred his eyes, briefly, during the credits, and then Sam’s hand fell gently back on his leg. Steve didn’t even think about it: he just grabbed on, and let his eyes close, and wondered what this meant the rest of the team had been thinking the whole time.

* * *

They did let him out the next day, but with a list of conditions so long that Steve thought about just staying. He was confined to his quarters, which had been scrubbed even cleaner than usual in an effort to keep them allergy free. His medications would be delivered by the medical staff, and he would wear not only a new monitoring wristband but also a cannula for oxygen. That meant dragging a canister around everywhere, even the bathroom.

At least it rolled, Steve thought, dragging the canister over the gap in the elevator doors with some effort. Sam finally grabbed it and dragged it over himself before replacing his hand on Steve’s biceps. Steve paused about fifty feet down the hall to rest.

“If only they had some kind of chair you could take,” Sam said, standing in front of him with crossed arms. “A chair with, like, wheels.”

“Shut up,” Steve said, but he managed a smile. “A man’s got a right to walk on his own two feet.”

“Sure. Man’s got a right to fall on his own ass from exhaustion, too, I guess,” Sam said. “Doesn’t mean any other man’s gotta pick him up from the floor.”

“You’d just leave me, huh?”

“Oh, sure, that sounds like me,” Sam said, offering his arm as they started back down the hall. When they reached his apartment, Steve wanted to go straight for the shower. He felt like the medical wing’s smell oozed from his pores, and his hair hung in a slick, greasy way that almost reminded him of being a kid again. He wasn’t sure he had the energy for anything past reaching the bed, though.

Even that took Sam’s help. “Yeah, I changed my mind, I totally want to make out with you now,” Sam said, pulling off one of Steve’s shoes, and Steve laughed, the shallow chuckle he’d been working on so his insides didn’t rattle loose.

“Many people find me very attractive.”

“Uh-huh. Where are these people?” Sam said, pulling off the other shoe. “You suppose one of them wants to make sure your O2 is plugged in right while another one gets you some water?”

“Sure,” Steve said, as Sam crawled around on the floor to plug in the oxygen machine. “Hey, did you know Vision and Wanda are, uh, doing it?”

“Doing what?” Sam asked, head popping up over the edge of the bed. “Got that set. You want water now or you just going to pass out?”

“Pass out,” Steve admitted. “Doing, uh, one another, I guess.”

Sam’s face nearly made Steve laugh in an unhealthy way. “Is that even possible?”

“Natasha assures me he’s ‘anatomically correct,’” Steve said as Sam sat on the other side of the bed.

“Oh she does.” Sam lay down next to him, and he didn’t smell like the hospital at all. Better not to think too much about that. “How does she know?”

“You know, I didn’t ask,” Steve said, and then could almost hear Sam smiling. “Not like that, I’m sure.”

“Oh, I’m sure, too, but I owe her some payback,” Sam said. “Might have to use this.”

Steve cracked an eye open. “Not around Banner, though.”

“No,” he said. “Don’t really want to inspire the green monster in either sense of that.”

“Mm.” He was about to slide back to sleep, but he asked, before he could stop himself, “You’re staying, right?”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “I’m here.”

* * *

Stark showed up two days after Steve got out of the hospital. If he hadn’t been having a really rough couple of days, having to meet with Tony Stark while dressed in pajamas and barely able to stay sitting upright for forty minutes would probably have been the worst part of his week. However, with such strong contenders working against it, Steve could only muster up a mild displeasure with the entire thing.

Stark was clearly uncomfortable through the entire meeting, too. The team had convened in Steve’s living room, with Fury leaning against the bar and Steve settled in his arm chair, feet propped up and oxygen cannula in place. He’d refused the blanket that Wanda had wanted to throw over his legs but accepted the hot tea. He kept the cup in both hands when he held it so no one could see his fingers shake.

“Look, this isn’t a coup,” Tony said, sitting so close to the edge of the couch that Steve wondered what was holding him on. Nervous energy, probably. “I’m not looking to usurp the Avengers. I mean, come on. I am an Avenger. I love you guys.”

“That’s sweet, Tony,” Natasha said, in a voice laced with the opposite tone.

“Look, Tigra came to me,” he said. “Well, to Pepper, but that’s like me. And she’s -- I think it’s only, it’s a logical extension of what we have here. People with special abilities are going to want ways to help. Better to get them in here, under the umbrella of our organization, to keep an eye on them --”

“So it’s about tracking?” Wanda said. She’d taken a seat at the bar, as far from Stark as possible. Steve knew they would never resolve their issues, and he didn’t blame Wanda for having it out for Stark, though he also thought her view of him was sometimes a little too simple. Stark, for his part, just looked arrogant and terrified every time he ran into Wanda. “You want to keep them around to make sure you know where they are, all the time?”

“Yes, and no,” Stark said. “Knowing where a cadre of super-powered people likes to hang out and exactly who they’re planning to unleash those powers against, yeah, let’s call that a pleasant side effect. What I want is to get as many strong, like-minded people as we possibly can trained and ready to go on a moment’s notice, in case next time, the villains decide they want a two-front war.”

“I’m actually not questioning your motives,” Steve said, and Stark blinked and looked so surprised that Steve knew some of it was put on. “But we talked about this several months ago. We don’t have the resources to train and track an entirely new set of Avengers. We’re not even so well liked at the moment that having an expansion team makes sense, Tony.”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “You all made some pretty impressive headlines last time you got the band back together. I thought part of our game plan was slow rebuilding, small missions, more trust.”

Natasha, sitting on the floor across from Steve, said, “Steve’s barely kept Congress off our backs, mostly by promising them we’re gonna tone it all down.”

“Toning down isn’t really my style.”

“And you’re not really an Avenger anymore,” Rhodes said, and Steve was very glad he’d said it. “Look, Tony, you know I think the idea is good, but they’re also right. If you want the core Avengers to really live up to its potential, you can’t start dividing resources and time and effort into a new group while everyone’s still pretty divided about whether they want the old group to stick around.”

Stark sighed and ran a hand through his hair. It sprung instantly back to that strange, perfect unkempt style. “So what, I should just let them go? Say, thanks but no thanks, the Avengers work alone?”

“No,” Steve said, and he could tell that surprised even Fury. “You’ve started this, so now we’ve got to go forward with something. I don’t really have the energy to deal with a group of enhanced people becoming disenchanted with SHIELD. So -- West Coast Strike.”

Fury leaned back and cross his arms. “Tactical team.”

“Yeah,” Steve said. “Orders from here. Training from here, too, if they’ll come in. But no separate decision-making arm. Not yet. We need time to cool things off, and they’re unknown quantities. We send out Strike Alpha to join them, train, coordinate, and observe.”

Natasha said, “And report back.”

“Not tracking,” Steve said. “If any of them aren’t comfortable taking orders, they probably don’t belong with us anyway. If they can do it for a while, then there’s a chance to move up in the ranks, but only if their work merits the consideration.”

Stark sat back on the couch. “I can probably sell that. Most of it. Actually, Pepper can definitely sell that. They can come here for training?”

“And we’ll send a Quinjet with Strike Alpha,” Steve said, not bothering to mention that technically, their top-tier strike teams all had two Quinjets at the ready around the clock. “That is, if you have the hangar space.”

Stark laughed. “I can move some things around. Probably time to spring clean, anyway.”

“Does that mean I’m getting another upgrade?” Rhodes said, and the tone of the meeting improved dramatically from there.

Soon, the team was making plans to meet at the A-bar after the threat assessment meeting. Sam advanced on Steve, though, and Steve said, “Don’t worry, Mom, I’m on house arrest anyway.”

“Oh, I know you’re not going anywhere. You look ready to nap where you are.”

“That bad, huh?” he asked, but he felt pretty worn down.

He shrugged. “You need a sandwich or anything?”

“I’m all right,” Steve said. “Just gonna sack out for a bit.” In the background, he could hear Vision and Stark chatting, and then the front door closed and it was all quiet again.

“Let me help,” Sam said. Steve leaned on him maybe a little more than necessary as they walked back to his bed, but he was pretty tired.

“Do you think,” Steve started, then realized what he had been about to say and how inappropriate it was, so he shut his mouth quickly.

“Do I think what?” Sam asked. “Stark’s still an arrogant dick, by the way, but I’m glad he’s changing his plan.”

Steve just nodded, as though that had been what he’d wanted to say. Really, he’d wanted to know whether Sam thought he might be willing to come back after the threat assessment, whether he might be willing to just stay.

That was ridiculous, though. Steve hardly knew why he wanted Sam around right now. As a kid, and later, as an adult, he’d spent most of the time when he was sick actively avoiding the company of others. He’d never wanted the hovering attention of Bucky’s mother or the awkward attempts that Bucky himself had made at comforting Steve. His own mother hadn’t been big into providing that kind of thing, despite being a nurse. Heck, maybe because she’d been a nurse and seen so many guys in such bad ways, she’d never spent a lot of time on sympathy. So Steve had grown up feeling -- knowing -- that whatever happened, he should just get up, keep going, stick to it. That had served him well at the orphanage, later, too.

Right now, though, right now, his expectations were different. He wasn’t just some kid in Brooklyn facing down a familiar bully or a workaday artist hoping for a break. He was the leader of the Avengers, a group that had global impact and responsibility. If this recent illness had taught him anything, then surely, it had taught him that his team would hold his place forever, even beyond the moment when he should still be holding it. He could keep getting up, but at some point, there was a cost — and not just to him.

Maybe he’d try and talk to Sam about this, he thought, as his eyes finally closed. If Sam came back after the threat assessment, maybe, Steve would ask him what he thought. Surely, Sam would come back. It helped to think that.

It turned out, he didn’t need to worry about whether he’d have company later. About twenty minutes after he woke from his nap, a nurse came by with his next round of medication. She helped Steve get settled on the couch in the living room before she left, and just as he was wondering whether it would set off some alarms if he tried to read through more intel about Bucky, a series of soft knocks fell on his door. “Come in,” he yelled, feeling a little rude for having to shout.

“Hey, uh, Steve, I hope I’m not bothering you,” Banner said, holding the door open but not yet stepping inside.

“No, not at all,” Steve said. “Come on in. I’d be glad for some company.”

That was true, and he thought maybe Banner could see it, because he smiled and shuffled in. The guy took up so little space, always hunched in on himself, until, of course, he took up all of the space. Steve had been around him enough now that he didn’t shift immediately into hyper-awareness just because Banner was nearby; he knew that Banner himself never really shifted down from that level of nervous attention to his surroundings. It made Steve feel a little safer, honestly.

“Is the threat assessment over?”

Banner shrugged. “Don’t know. Not sure I’m invited to that one. I hear it’s the kind of thing that raises the blood pressure.” He smiled and took a seat on the starry arm chair. Steve had his first real chance to study him. He looked fine. Tan. Not lean and hungry, not too tired, not overly stressed. He wore rumpled gray pants and an equally rumpled shirt, but that was about the only sign that this guy had just flown in from half the world away and had been living, presumably, hand-to-mouth on a desert island for the past six months.

“This furniture is… interesting,” Banner said, lifting a red-and-white striped throw pillow off of the chair.

“Stark,” Steve said. “I definitely do not recommend him for home design.”

“It’s funny, though, I’ve seen his homes. They’re not bad.”

Steve shrugged. “Pepper.”

Banner nodded. “Yeah. She’s great.” He looked around a little more, and Steve thought he seemed nervous. Banner was always a little like that, but this seemed, well, different. Immediate.

Oh, Steve thought, and then shook his head. Oh, well. “You here about the tests and stuff? If it’s bad news, it’s OK,” Steve said. “Never really had a house call that ended with good news.”

“What? Oh, no,” Banner said, and he laughed. “No, no, I, uh, actually, the lab work, it’s been really interesting. I’m running some scans now, actually, Vision is monitoring some things for me, but, yeah, the molecular infusion is exactly what I’d always suspected. Just outstanding work. Erskine must have been, it would have been such an honor to work with him.”

“He was a great guy,” Steve said. “I wish you would have had the chance. Then again, things would probably be a lot different.”

“Well. Yeah. Lot of things,” Banner said. They’d never really talked about how, exactly, mild-mannered Bruce Banner had taken it upon himself to test out some slightly-off super-soldier serum. Steve thought there might be something to be flattered about, somewhere in that mistake and disaster, but he didn’t want to think about it too much. It was hard enough to reconcile Banner with the Hulk; it was harder to still to reconcile Banner with the kind of egotism that would make someone pursue that line of research and test it on himself.

“So, just stopping in to say hello? I’m not much company,” Steve said. “You’ve seen my charts, so you know that, I guess.”

“Uh-huh. Yeah. Your numbers this morning were better, at least,” he said. “But no, I didn’t come for entertainment.” He managed a thin smile. “Tony’s in the same building with Natasha and Wanda. I could just watch that show if I needed a laugh.”

“You’re tellin’ me,” Steve said. “As the guy who has to clean up after that show, I’m a little grateful to be out of action for the moment.”

“No kidding.” Banner folded his hands together and managed not to wring them for almost thirty seconds. “It’s, actually. I was going to talk to you about Natasha.”

“Oh,” Steve said. He sat up a little straighter against the cushions. “Did you come to get the big brother talk? I can do it,” he said. “I gave just about half of Brooklyn that talk at one time or another on Bucky’s sisters’ behalves. I’m a little rusty, though, and I have a feeling some of the gender stuff has changed since then.”

Banner looked amused, which was what Steve had been aiming for. “Big brother talk, huh? Well, I guess that clears up one question.”

“What’s that?”

He shrugged, looking down at his hands. “I didn’t want to step on any toes.”

Steve laughed, a big, surprised laugh that made him cough. This time, though, he got himself back under control quickly, and Banner didn’t look too worried. “No toes here,” he said. “At least, none in your way. If you mean — “

“You’re not interested in her?”

“She’s my friend,” he said. “I’m interested in her well being. But there’s never been anything like that for us.”

Banner nodded, though he looked uncertain, and Steve actually liked that. He liked that Banner thought Natasha was so great that he couldn’t understand why another guy _wouldn’t_ want to be with her. “So, uh. This talk.”

“I used to always say, don’t break her heart. Don’t get her into trouble.” He smiled, just a little. “Guess that saying means something a little different now. And I’ve put her in harm’s way more than you have in the last year.”

“That wouldn’t be true if I stayed,” Banner said, but he said it quietly.

Steve shifted. So here was the real question. “Do you want to stay?”

Banner looked up. “Honestly? I don’t know. I don’t really fit anywhere. I can survive out in the middle of nowhere, but — it’s not great. And, after Ultron, I guess I’m kind of wondering whether that’s the idea.”

“You’re wondering if the world needs you after all.”

He shrugged. “South Africa would seem to say it would be better if I hid.”

“That was a pretty isolated incident.”

“Not as isolated as I’d like,” he said, shifting. His hands clutched his biceps. “I’ve done a lot of damage over the years. In a lot of places.”

“But your control is better than it’s ever been,” Steve said. “And she’s a part of that.”

Banner nodded. “So do I, is that something, like,” he said, and then he stopped, staring at the arm of Steve’s chair. Steve wondered what he was really seeing there. “I don’t know if that’s enough. If, you know, it’s good enough to start something just because, because she makes me —“

“Happy?”

A smile flickered briefly over Banner’s face. “Better,” he said. “My control is better, like you said. And, to be honest, I liked the team aspect, leading up to Ultron. I’ve kind of missed having a lab.”

“The facilities here are, I’ve heard, top-notch.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “We could build something. Work with Stark. Get you an — an out, a capsule or a module or something.”

“The return of Veronica?” Banner smiled. “There’s already a sequel there.”

“I meant for training.” Steve let his gaze unfocus as he thought through the particulars. “If you’re worried that it’s too much to make Natasha responsible for helping you improve your control, then let’s find some other methods to help build it.”

“It’s not only that,” Banner said. “Look, I -- if I stay, I become the weapon of last resort. I know that even if I say I’m only here for the lab, that’s what happens. Because Fury’s gonna call a Code Green some day, and he’s not above using some pretty persuasive measures to make it happen.”

Steve just nodded. This was a hard one for him. In some ways, he didn’t completely understand Banner’s reluctance: the Hulk could do things that none of the other Avengers could, and his presence in a battle often turned the tide so quickly that they had more surrenders than kills. Then again, Steve himself had suffered from feeling like he’d become more of a tool than a person in SHIELD, and he’d never had to experience the kind of exponential change, coupled with complete loss of control, that Banner’s switch included.

“From my perspective, you can set your limits wherever you want,” Steve said. “As long as I’m in charge, I won’t strategize with, uh, the other guy in mind.”

“Yeah,” Banner said, “but that’s not gonna stop other people from including him in their plans. And that includes Natasha.” He ran one hand through his hair. Unlike Stark, his didn’t settle back perfectly; it just added to his mad scientist look. “She’s shown that she has no real qualms about calling him up when she thinks it’s needed, no matter what I say. That’s kind of a hard thing to get over.”

Steve coughed without meaning to and reached for a Kleenex, which the doctors had insisted he use instead of his handkerchiefs. Banner looked up and said, “Oh, God, I’m sorry, here I am, whining on, and you’re still sick. Sorry. I can get out of your hair.”

Steve balled up the Kleenex in one hand and shook his head. “You’re not bothering me,” he said. “I don’t have any answers for you, but -- you know, with everything you’re saying, I don’t really hear you saying you’re not interested in her. And I know she’s still got a thing for you.”

“Yeah?” He looked so hopeful that Steve smiled.

“Definitely,” he said. “I’m not saying she’s not also gonna knee you in the groin next time you’re alone.”

“That might not end well,” Banner said, “but point taken. It’s just -- “

“Difficult,” Steve said. “I get it. I do.”

“Yeah?” Banner looked briefly amused, again. “Wait, not you and Wanda, right?”

He was reasonably certain the look on his face must have answered that question. “No, I believe her interests lie elsewhere.”

“Oh. Oh!” Banner laughed nervously. “Uh, I’m not going to step on her toes here, am I? That’s not really a fight I want to start.”

“No,” Steve said. “Say, actually, you might be able to answer this. The body — so when the cradle, if it, when it’s building, ah, human — like Vision. I’ve heard it’s, ah,” and then he laughed, just a little, and realized he’d never be able to get the words out. “You know, never mind.”

“Well, now I’m either really curious or mildly horrified, and that’s usually a combination of feelings I associate with Tony.” Banner grinned, and it faded into something lopsided and friendly. “He’s down in the lab. I should probably go supervise. You need a hand getting back to bed or anything? I know I’ve been keeping you up for a while.”

Steve rubbed his face. “You know, I actually just got up, so I’m good for a while.” He smiled as Banner stood. “I’m glad you came by. And -- I’m glad you’re thinking about staying. Anything I can do to make it easier, I’ll do it. I mean that.”

“I know,” Banner said, and he gave Steve an awkward pat on the shoulder. “I’m kinda hoping I can return the favor with some of this work in the lab.”

“That would be nice,” Steve said, but before he could ask anymore about that, there was a knock on the door. It burst open before Steve could even say hello, and then Tony Stark walked in.

“Thank God, I thought I’d find you passed out on the floor. They told me you’re ‘roiding up, so,” he said, striding in. “Banner, you givin’ him tips? How to deal with the monster within?”

“I bet you’re really sorry you didn’t let me take you back to bed, huh?” Banner said, crossing his arms.

Stark stopped short of Steve’s kitchen and looked at both of them. “Wait, it’s like that with you two? Gotta admit, Banner, you’re a surprise, but if anyone could scare the straight out of a guy, it’d be Widow. How’s your long lost love gonna feel about that, though, Cap?”

Steve blinked. “Peggy?”

“Uh, no, I meant -- how is the search for the over-wintered soldier going? That’s actually what I came up to chat about and, you know, to make sure you’re not dead. Also, apparently I’m bad for morale at your threat meeting. So. You have any nuts? Popcorn? I need something a little snacky.” He was spinning in a circle in Steve’s kitchen, snapping.

Banner sighed. “Should I call for back up?” he muttered, then stood up and went to help Stark organize snacks.

Steve was actually grateful for that. He hadn’t realized he was hungry until Banner presented him a plate of sliced cheese and apples. “There’s a shocking lack of vegetables in your refrigerator.”

“Yeah, I don’t really eat here much.”

Stark sat on the other end of the couch and kicked his feet onto Steve’s coffee table. “Yeah? You find someone who does takeout all the way out here?”

“Mostly, I’ve been enjoying the hospital’s grub, lately,” Steve said, and he wished he could nudge Stark’s feet down himself, but he was starting to get pretty tired. “Put your feet on the floor.” “What, now you like the furniture?” Stark said. “So seriously, though. Rhodes told me you’re closing in on the Winter Soldier, and Vision showed me a few of his search matrices. Let’s talk Russian robot turkey.”

So the next thirty minutes or so were filled with Tony Stark and Bruce Banner speculating on the current location and biological/technological signatures of Steve’s oldest friend, while Steve sunk lower and lower into the couch and tried to keep up.

He was taking a puff on his inhaler when Sam and Natasha walked in.

“Oh!” Banner had been walking back from the kitchen, carrying a bottle of water for Steve and a second beer for Stark, but he stopped dead when he saw Natasha. She, of course, didn’t even pause, just crossed right into the room and took a seat in the chair Banner had vacated.

“I didn’t know you boys were having a party up here,” she said, voice a purr, and Steve wanted to roll his eyes. This was Natasha’s equivalent of the worst male posturing he’d ever seen. “I would’ve come up sooner.”

“Well, that’s a terrifying thought,” Stark said, not sounding afraid at all.

“We thought you might want some dinner,” Sam said. “Never did get you to eat that soup the other night.”

“I had a snack.” Steve felt kind of lame for saying it. The whole room had filled up with an almost palpable tension. Banner was practically glowing with awkward hope and distress, and Stark looked ready to break out the popcorn as he stared at Natasha. “But I could eat more. If, um. Everyone’s staying for dinner?”

“That’s the plan,” Natasha said, her smile wide and fake.

“Great.” Steve pushed himself to the edge of the couch and stood up, slowly. “Give me a minute to hit the facilities.” His back ached from lying around so much. He started to shuffle toward his bedroom, dragging his stupid oxygen container, and he could almost feel the tension in the room changing. And then he started coughing — just the bronchitis, not asthma, but it left him unsteady on his feet, wiping his watery eyes.

“Jesus Christ, Cap,” Stark said, and he was surprised to see Stark’s arm appear next to him, bent at the elbow and offered as a support. “OK, new plan, everyone else meet in the bar in 20. We have clearly taken up enough of this man’s time.”

“Tony —“ Steve started, but the truth was, Steve was done in. He took Tony’s arm. As much as he wanted to smooth the way for Banner and Natasha, the closer he drew to his bedroom, the more he wanted to just lie down.

“Ah ah ah. You can pick one friend to stay on guard duty,” Stark said. “Know that if you pick me, I’m leaving the new suit on sentry while I watch the Green Widow show get going downstairs.”

“Noted,” Steve said, “but I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Huh. Really. Because the way I hear it,” Stark said, trying to steer Steve to the bed, but Steve shook his head and just paused in the doorway. He wanted Stark to go away before he went for the bathroom, “left to your own devices, you wind up nearly unconscious on your own living room floor a lot.”

“One time,” Steve said.

“I hear it’s kind of a trend.” Stark started to say something else, but Sam clapped a hand on Steve’s shoulder from behind. “Oh hey, is this your phone-a-friend? Much better choice. Looks like he might have a bedside manner.”

“Who’ve you been talking to?” Sam asked, raising an eyebrow, and Stark laughed. “Steve, there’s a nurse here to help with your meds again.”

Everyone else left while the nurse not only helped him with his medications but also, and Steve was deeply embarrassed by this, helped him to and from the toilet and sink. “Can I ask you something?” he said, when he was settled back in his bed. “How long’s it going to be like this? Like — where I’m so worn out?”

“Once you’re over the bronchitis and off of these drugs, you’ll feel a lot better,” the nurse said. “Couple more days of the big guns. And your body’s still healing from the trauma the other night. Give it time.”

“That’s not advice that works real well on him,” Sam said from the doorway, and Steve sighed, letting his eyes close.

“You stayed.”

“Natasha had actually volunteered for overnight duty, earlier,” he said, “but somehow, I think her plans may have changed.”

Steve heard the nurse confer with Sam, but he honestly didn’t care what she was telling him. Sam would take care of it. He’d tell Steve anything he needed to know. It was, Steve reflected as he let himself slip into sleep, really nice to trust someone this much again.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team goes on a mission while Steve stays home. Also, there's Scrabble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for Tony Stark making inappropriate jokes? Well --

The next day, Steve had two important meetings. First, when he managed to surface for breakfast, Sam was waiting for him. “You remember you said you’d talk to somebody?” It took Steve a moment, but then he nodded, wary. “Well, Fury got a guy to come in. Just for you. Not someone who’s talking to anyone else on staff. Says the guy is, I quote, ‘director approved,' whatever bullshit that means.” 

“Oh. Great,” Steve said, though he knew he wasn’t good at faking enthusiasm. “So, when does that happen?” 

“He’s downstairs in the bar.” 

“The bar? It’s — “ Steve almost blushed when he saw the clock. Sam was already dressed and ready for the day, he realized, and had maybe already been to Natasha’s morning session. “Is it really 9 a.m.?” 

“Are you really one day out of the hospital?” Sam asked, but he smiled a little. “I know you’re not cleared to leave, but I didn’t want to sic him on you without some warning.” 

Steve nodded. He didn’t want to meet with this guy at all, and meeting in Steve’s apartment meant there would be no way to escape. However, at the moment, he didn’t really have any other options, and there was something hopeful in Sam’s voice that Steve didn’t want to shatter. “You think he could bring up some coffee?” 

“Yeah,” Sam said, “and something better than instant oatmeal. Seriously, how do you survive on this crap?” “Through the generosity of friends,” Steve said, and Sam bumped his shoulder, gently, before he left. 

A nurse came in to help him get his medications sorted out and then, though Steve hated it, she helped him through the shower. He felt better afterwards, though, particularly once the nurse left the apartment. He had about fifteen blissful minutes to himself before a couple of short, sharp knocks announced Andrew Garner’s presence. 

“So I don’t know exactly what to call you,” Steve said, shaking his hand over the dining table. Garner had brought a couple of cardboard trays full of eggs, sausage, pancakes, sliced fruit, and two plate-sized cinnamon rolls drenched in white icing. It surprised Steve when Garner took one of the rolls instead of the fruit. He opted for a few strawberries and a couple of the sausages. 

“Likewise, actually,” Garner said. He was a fit, forty-something guy with a deep, resonant voice. He wore a bright blue button-down shirt and slacks, dressed up but also, Steve thought, not terribly high-end or fashion conscious clothing. The guy looked good in the clothes because he was a good-looking guy, but he gave off a vibe like maybe he spent a lot of time in comfortable office or making house calls to rich, nervous patients. Steve had expected someone older and more, well, veteran-like. “I usually ask patients to go by first names, but —“ 

“That’s fine,” Steve said. “Steve is fine. And… are you Dr. Garner, or…?” 

“Dr. Garner, yes, but Andrew is fine if you’re comfortable with it,” he said. “Though — are you asking about my degrees?” Steve shrugged, and Garner smiled, easy, not offended. “I have three, actually. A doctorate in psychology and a medical degree in neuroscience, along with a master’s degree in fine arts.” 

“Yeah? What kind of art?” 

“Violin,” Garner said. “Performance. You know, it’s my financial security back-up plan.” 

Steve grinned. “I keep meaning to get one of those.” 

Garner was easy to talk to, which Steve found a little unsettling. It turned out he was actually a vet himself, having served briefly just out of high school. “Yeah, ROTC paid for my first degree, and then I got hooked.” He raised an eyebrow. “You ever have a chance to go to school?” 

“We did have college in the 40s,” Steve said, but he could tell that wasn’t what Garner meant. “I took some art classes from a city college.” He shrugged. “Did all right with it, but then the Army paid for, well, all of this, and I guess I got hooked, too.” 

“You ever think about going back to that?” 

Steve sighed. “How much has Fury told you about what’s happening?” 

“I didn’t speak with Nick about you, beyond saying I’d be glad to meet and chat,” Garner said, face open and gaze clear. “But it doesn’t actually take a medical doctor to see that you’ve had some kind of physical trauma recently.” He gestured at the oxygen tank. “So I’m thinking this talking might not be voluntary.” 

They talked for a half-hour or so about where Steve was now and how he’d wound up there. Garner caught on quickly, asking smart questions about his recovery possibilities and the physical therapies they were trying. They didn’t really even get into the head-shrinking stuff, but Steve did give him permission to read through his medical files and consult with his doctors. 

“You’re sure about that?” Garner said. 

Steve shrugged. “I kind of signed up to have no secrets in 1945.” 

Garner shook his head. “I get what you’re saying, but everything we talk about here — it’s just between us, all right?” 

“Sure, I know,” Steve said, and then thought for a second. “Am I the only person you’re talking to here?” 

Garner nodded. “Professionally? Yes. You’re my only potential patient here. I have treated members of the same team before, but I don’t think that’s a good idea now.” He smiled. “Steve, believe me when I say I’ve dealt with plenty of top-level secrets before. Nothing you tell me, whether it’s about your teammates or Fury or aliens or whatever, is going anywhere but between us.” 

Steve wanted to believe that, but he’d been a celebrity for quite a while, now. Pictures from the alien invasion in New York, from one time in Chicago when he’d lost most of his uniform top to fire, from an ill-advised post-mission swim off the coast in Atlantic City, those had all made the news, been spread over the Internet like jam over dry toast. People would soak up every detail of his life, given the chance, and they didn’t distinguish between truth and fiction. Even the knowledge that he was seeing a therapist would likely make headlines, if it became known; it would probably get brought up in Congress. 

“Why do you think Fury referred you, by the way?” Garner asked, finishing off the last bite of his roll. He hadn’t gotten even a crumb on his shirt. 

“It wasn’t actually Nick,” Steve said. “I — one of my friends, Sam Wilson, he used to lead a vet’s group at the VA. He’s a little worried about me. Which is nice, I know, it’s — friends do that, they worry.” 

“Do your friends usually worry?” 

Steve’s fruit was only half finished. He wondered if he should eat the rest of it, if Garner would report back to his medical staff that his appetite was low, but he just didn’t really want it. “Honestly, considering what we do every day, they probably don’t worry more than the average person.” 

“What do you think Sam was worried about, specifically, then?” 

Steve sighed and pushed the fruit away. “He — some of my medical team, and Sam, they think, maybe, I’m not coping well. Uh, depressed, or something. But — I’m just not sure what I have to talk about. I mean, sure, I’m not as cheerful as I was a couple of weeks ago, but -- to be honest, I think everyone should be more worried if I was happy about this.” 

“This being your physical illness?” He nodded. “You said it might be temporary.” 

“Right,” Steve said with a short laugh. “If I can just live long enough, maybe the serum will kick back in.” 

“Is that something you’re worried about? Dying?” Garner’s eyes were dark, almost black-brown, and open enough to seem interested and kind. 

“No,” he said, feeling pretty honest about that. “Look, this job -- what I do, it comes with certain risks. I understood those risks going in. I still do. Not everybody walks away from every battle. And, well, I’ve actually been down that road before.” He shrugged. “I don’t really worry about dying. If I did, I’d never be able to fight the way we do.” 

“But right now, you’re not able to fight,” he said, voice just flat, stating a fact. 

Sam’s voice at his hospital bedside rang through his head. _It’s so meaningless._ Steve shook his head. “Well, I’ll admit, I didn’t think asthma was going to be the thing that brought me down. Not anymore.” 

“Do you think this will kill you?” 

He shrugged. “If not this, something. Guys like me -- there was never going to be, you know. Front line soldiers, they don’t live to old age.” 

Garner smiled, just a little, and said, “Well, that’s something to think about for next time, isn’t it?” 

“What’s that?” 

“You might live longer, now.” 

Steve frowned. “Wait, you said — next time?” 

Garner nodded. “I thought next week, Monday? Is morning better, or late in the afternoon?” 

“Morning,” Steve said. Of course, it wouldn’t be a one-time thing. Of course. “Isn’t it kind of a long drive for you, though?” 

Garner shrugged. “I’ve got reasonably reliable transportation,” he said, gesturing to the window. “My other work is centered on another SHIELD location, so it won’t be a problem to travel.” He put one hand out, and Steve shook it, feeling uncertain. “You can call me if you need to, anytime, between now and then. I should have time to review your medical information, too.” 

Steve raised an eyebrow. “See what you’re really up against, you mean?” 

“See if you’re cleared to talk over a beer next time,” Garner said, easily. 

“I am never cleared to drink at 9 a.m.,” Steve said, but he smiled as he said it. 

After he left, Steve managed to shuffle himself into the kitchen for a drink, and then he just stood and stared at the island and tried not to think about what his life was like now. Trapped in his apartment. Getting his head shrunk. Too weak to run or workout, too unfit to fight with his team. His monitor beeped at him, a warning about his heart rate, and Steve wondered if he should have said something about this to Garner, the way anxiety lived in a bubble just beneath his diaphragm these days, hard and cold and nauseating. 

Well. That was something to think about for next time, too. 

He dozed on the couch in front of meaningless television for a bit before a new nurse woke him up to hand over more medication. “Would you like me to order some lunch?” the nurse asked. 

Steve sighed. “Whadda you weigh, pal?” he asked, sizing the kid up. “You think you could catch me if I fell over?” 

“Sir?” 

“Let’s buzz Dr. Garcia,” he said. “I’d like to eat with my friends.” 

Twenty minutes later, with the help of his strong male nurse, Steve was sitting in the Avengers’ lunch room. He had his oxygen tank, his inhaler, his medical band, and the nurse who would likely hover in the hallway for the entire meal, but he also had a sandwich, a lemon-lime soda, and, five minutes after he arrived, Sam’s broad smile walking through the doors. 

“It’s alive!” Stark said, walking in next. Both he and Sam wore tank tops and shorts and were covered in a thin sheen of sweat, which, Steve realized, was strange; he never really thought about Stark working out. He was a fit guy, though, so it made sense. “Wilson took me through your workout routine. Gotta say, that gym isn’t so bad, though if you guys ever want to upgrade that screen to 3-D, just say the word. Hey, papaya.” 

Sam handed over a fruit without a word, and Steve felt the strangest jolt of jealousy at the ease between them. Well, wasn’t that great? Sam could work out with anyone he wanted to, and Stark was no threat. Though he talked a good, bawdy game, Steve had a pretty clear picture of how serious he was about Pepper, and how seriously she’d destroy him if he laid a hand on another person. 

“Cap, is that your nurse in the hall?” Stark asked, sitting across the table. “He’s hot, huh? Banner know you’re stepping out on him with the help? Not sure he’s the kind you wanna make jealous.” 

Steve glared. “You’re winding me up, Tony, really?” 

“Everybody needs a hobby,” Stark said, grinning around a bite of papaya. “What’s yours, by the way? All this time off finally give you a chance to finish up your macrame shield cozy?” 

“Yeah, when I’m done, I’ll send you a sweater,” Steve said. “I’ll make it big enough to fit your suit and your ego.” 

“False promises,” Stark said. “Can’t be contained.” 

“His hobby,” Sam said, settling into a chair next to Steve, “is pretty much being a badass detective on the hunt for Bucky Barnes. I assume we’re picking that up this week?” 

“Probably,” Steve said. “I’m cleared to leave my apartment once a day, so maybe soon my computer codes will be reinstated.” 

“Oh, I can do that,” Stark said. “Who cut you off? Fury? His passwords are laughable.” 

Steve raised an eyebrow at that but didn’t ask. “Medical staff, I guess. Not supposed to be stressing out right now.” 

Stark laughed. “Fuck ‘em, you know? Can’t just sit around and think about medical stuff like this. Just makes it worse.” And of course, Tony Stark knew about this stuff. Steve forgot, sometimes; even when they’d worked together more frequently, even when he’d been living in Stark’s tower in New York, even when he’d been giving Stark orders on the battlefield, he sometimes managed to forget that behind the mask and the suit and the attitude, this guy had given his _entire life_ over to saving the world. 

“It does,” Steve said, quietly, and Stark nodded, eyes flicking over to meet his for just a moment. Then he picked up his phone and tapped a few things, turned it on its side, flicked it toward the computer panel at the far wall, and then said, “Override, override, override. You know what to do, Friday.” Then he ate another two mouthfuls of fruit before the computer said, “Restrictions lifted, Captain Rogers.” 

“Thanks.” 

“So, Scrabble and the search for the Winter Soldier at your place tonight, Cap? Can we play dirty Scrabble? I suck at the normal kind.” 

“No, you cannot,” Banner said, walking across the room toward the food, “because no matter what kind of Scrabble you play, you make up words, and it’s much less damaging to my own vocabulary if I don’t have to watch you making up dirty words.” 

“But I think it might be fun,” Natasha said, taking a seat on Steve’s other side. She picked up a slice of mango from his plate. “Ran out of sad single-man food at your place?” 

“Something like that,” he said, and he couldn’t help smiling. 

They all had to go back to training that afternoon, and Steve went back to his place for a nap. Then, feeling industrious, he flicked open his computer and started doing a bit of research. 

Thing was, people liked to razz him about technology. They always seemed surprised to know that he could manage a cell phone or a computer, that he wasn’t shocked about how thin televisions were or how small computers were. None of that stuff really surprised him, though, because it wasn’t as though he’d had some monstrous home computer back before. Computers, in his memory, were always small because they hadn’t had any before the ice. Televisions had always had flat screens and spanned a full wall and had 800 nearly indistinguishable channels to choose from. Smartphones were the only mobile devices he’d ever known. 

So Steve wasn’t a born tech-wizard like Stark or Sam or a super brain like Banner, but he could navigate menus and holographic binders and Stark’s intuitive operating system with no hitch. 

That afternoon, he meant to just pick up his research into Bucky. Stark and Banner had come up with some really interesting ideas, and Steve wanted to incorporate what they’d been suggesting into his own search parameters. But just opening the file made him feel tired and behind. He’d already been failing Bucky for the past 75 years; he could probably put him on hold, again, to try and catch up with his team. 

He started going through everything SHIELD had on Ernie Balko. 

“I can’t actually tell,” he said to Natasha and Wanda, later, when they’d arrived fresh from threat assessment, “whether this guy is a legitimate threat or just a really lucky crazy guy.” 

“Did someone say my name?” Stark asked, walking up behind them with an armful of booze. Steve was sitting at his rarely-used dining room table, his briefing book next to him though he’d shut the computer down when his friends had arrived. 

“Fury seems to be leaning toward lucky,” Natasha said, taking a seat next to him. She navigated gracefully around his oxygen tank. “You were talking about doing a limited strike, maybe Strike Beta and two of us, next week, right?” 

“Vision and I could do it,” Wanda said, and Steve gave Natasha a quick _Don’t you dare look_. Natasha just raised an amused eyebrow. 

“Maybe,” Steve agreed, looking at Wanda, “but until we really know what that mask does, I think we should keep you clear. Rhodes and Vision might be a better match for this.” In truth, he knew the best fit against Balko and his rather physical crew would actually be Steve himself -- in his full Captain America glory, not as he was now. Teamed with Vision or Natasha, he could distract and fight the men while the computers were raided and, if need be, razed. 

“I could tag in,” Stark said. 

Steve nodded. “Maybe,” he said. It would be good to have Stark in on the mission, since there would be computers involved, but Steve thought Natasha could do that just as well. 

“They love me in New York,” Stark said with a big grin, then paused. “Well, they loved me until the bill came through for the Chitauri invasion.” 

Balko was left behind, then, as everyone talked about New York and the still ongoing reconstruction. Apparently, Steve really could never go home again -- not even at post-invasion prices. 

The door opened one last time, revealing Maria Hill carrying two giant, overstuffed bags, and Vision balancing two trays of rolls and relishes. Barbecue sandwiches, then. 

“If this devolves into strip Scrabble,” Hill said, “I brought blankets and blinders. I know Stark sucks at this and I can’t see him naked again.” 

“That’s true,” Stark said, sounding thoughtful. “It was in the court order.” 

That was a good night. They set up the game board around the dining room table, and everyone congregated there and in the kitchen. Steve appreciated that, though he wasn’t sure if they were consciously staying within his limited orbit or not. He had his evening medications just after the first game was completed, but he felt fine, quiet, content. As Stark played _nuclear_ and tried to argue it could be made plural, Rhodes said, “And don’t even try pulling that ‘I’m an expert because I carried one’ card in this room, Tony.” 

“I’m sorry, did I miss the part when anyone else had saved New York from nuclear detonation?” 

“I like to think we all did our parts,” Steve said. 

“Except for Sam,” Hill said, grinning. “Terrible excuse, being in the wrong country at the wrong time.” 

“Yeah, just minding my own business in Afghanistan,” Sam said, his grin just as easy. 

“Technically, I hadn’t even been born,” Vision said, and everyone laughed. 

“Uh-huh. Well, junior, you were there, I promise, a glint in your father’s eyes,” Stark said, lifting his glass of whiskey in salute. “To the next save,” he proposed, and everyone lifted a glass. Steve even lifted his own, full of iced tea, but he held it aloft instead of drinking it, just staring around the table for a while. 

“Guys,” he said, half of a smile still tugging at the corner of his mouth, “you know there might not be a next save for me.” 

“Aw, c’mon, Cap, lighten up,” Hill said. 

“I didn’t mean that,” Steve said, but Stark cut in, too. 

“I agree,” he said, “absolutely no maudlin mulling of mortality. Someone write that down, it was poetry.” 

“Yeah, Steve, give us a little credit,” Banner said from the end of the table. “Come down to the lab sometime soon, all right? It’s not as bleak as you think.” 

“All right,” Steve said, in part because Sam’s hand had fallen warmly on his shoulder, and he could see Wanda’s face drawing down, and he didn’t want to ruin the evening. “All right. I -- hey, did you guys bring dessert?” 

“Now, that’s the right priority,” Rhodes said. “And can I also get a ruling on this shit? Tony, ‘nucleary’ is definitely not a word, and you can’t double-use the triple score.” 

* * *

Natasha slept over that night. Steve barely knew it; she stayed on the couch, and he wasn’t sure if she actually slept, but she was there when he fell asleep and a hot cup of coffee sat waiting on the counter when he staggered up out of bed. He sipped it and tried to feel more grateful than embarrassed, and he mostly succeeded. 

Garcia came to see him later that morning, and she was pleased enough with his recovery to take him off of the oxygen tank. Steve celebrated by taking a long, luxurious shower and then a longer nap, free from the concern of tangling himself in the cord. Then, with clearance, he made his way back downstairs for another lunch and stayed through the threat assessment. 

“I think we need to hit this guy soon,” Steve said when Fury brought up Balko. 

“Maybe so,” he said, “but we’ve got another problem right now.” He showed an overhead satellite view of a remote compound and started explaining the problems. The words were some that Steve knew well: alien tech, a few known villains in the area, unexplained power surges. It added up to a limited Avengers mission. 

Usually, Steve would have sent two or three people at most, but since he couldn’t be among them, he didn’t want to take a chance of going in short-handed. “Full crew,” Steve said, zinging a finger around the table and including Stark. “Rhodes, Tony, you’ll be my eyes on the ground. Natasha, Vision, you’re doing the advance work here; that open gate would be a great place to rig your static pulses. Sam takes point if we lose comms. Wanda, stay with the ship unless they call you out, but be prepared to lay down heavy protection if they have big guns under those mounds.” Steve paused and made himself take a pull from his inhaler. “And if you could all manage to get back before lunch tomorrow, I’ll leave you some cookies.” 

“You’re all heart,” Tony said. “I suppose you’re gonna want to leave at the ass-crack of dawn or something just as horrible?” 

“Yep, like right now,” Fury said. “Our intel’s fresh, but it ain’t gonna stay that way.” 

“Fifteen minutes. Get what you need,” Steve said. As the team filed out of the conference room, Steve felt a restlessness so intense he had to stand up. He paced from one end of the conference room to the other, then, while Fury was tied up talking to Hill, made a slow break for the hallway. The hangar wasn’t too far, and Steve watched the blinking pulse light on his wristband as he walked, keeping his pace smooth and slow and comfortable even though his insides were screaming that he should run. 

Standing on the metal mesh deck, looking down as Vision boarded the Quinjet and warmed it up, and knowing he wouldn’t be going along -- it was one of the strangest feelings Steve had ever had. He felt proud of his team, confident in their abilities, certain that the plan they’d discussed would result in the return of this alien piece. Yet he also felt anxiety so thick it verged on panic. As Wanda, a tiny figure in red, boarded the plane below, Steve’s gut twisted. He should be going. 

“I’ve sent people into battles most of my life,” Fury said from behind him. “Stood back and watched good people fight my fights. Sent men and women to die.” 

“You’re good at it,” Steve said, surprised by how hard it was to force the words out. He squeezed his inhaler but knew the pressure wasn’t an asthma attack. 

“You will be, too,” Fury said. His hand landed on Steve’s shoulder. Below, Tony and Rhodes climbed up the ramp, their suits rolling in behind them in long, silver metal crates. Rhodes laughed, and the sound carried, thinly, on the air. 

Sam and Natasha boarded last. They didn’t look up. Steve wasn’t sure if he was glad. 

“Where do we watch from?” Steve asked. 

“Nowhere, just yet. Got three hours of flying to do before there’s anything to study.” Fury’s hand fell away, and he raised one eyebrow. “I believe you’re still technically supposed to be on bedrest.” 

“And you’re technically not my boss,” Steve said. 

“Nope, just a friend who doesn’t really enjoy visiting you in the hospital,” he said. “And I’m damn sure they’re not gonna let you sit in on the leadership meetings from your bed in ICU.” 

“All right,” Steve said. “I’ll be back down at 1700.” Fury nodded. “But wake me if anything --” 

“Now just how dumb do you think I am?” Fury said, and Steve laughed, in spite of himself. When he heard the jet clear the runway, he started back to his apartment. 

* * *

The raid was a success. They captured not only a freezer case full of alien blood and scientific experiments, all of which Fury seemed dismayed about, but they also managed to bring three major Hydra organizers in. Several dozen others had been casualties, to be tended to by Minnesota law enforcement. 

Successful, though, didn’t mean easy, and the team that walked off the Quinjet looked a little worse for the wear. Stark and Rhodes were unscathed, though Stark was already talking about the wear-and-tear fixes the suits would require. Natasha and Sam both looked beat-up: Natasha’s suit was torn at the elbow, and she walked stiffly; Sam had dirt and debris smudged over his face and blood trickling from a superficial cut across one bicep. Wanda was also worn but unhurt. 

The problem was Vision. 

“I don’t think it’s all that serious,” he said, but he rode out of the jet on the back of Stark’s armor carrier instead of under his own power. His power, actually, had been cut during the fight, and Stark said a few of the lines had been badly damaged. They been monitoring him closely for the entire flight. 

“We can fix it,” Stark said, glancing over at where Banner had joined Steve on the platform, “but not until morning. And we’d better get Dr. Cho up and working.” 

“Why not now?” Wanda said. Her hand rested possessively on Vision’s back. “He’s hurt. He needs help.” 

“I assure you,” Vision said, his own hand resting clumsily over Wanda’s shoulder, “that I am in no pain. A delay until morning would accommodate the need for everyone to rest and improve focus. I’m not averse to that.” 

“I’ll stay with you,” Wanda said, voice fierce and so possessive that Steve felt a little embarrassed. Next to him, Banner cleared his throat. 

“My lab is clear,” he said. “You could both rest in there.” 

As Wanda started that way, Banner said to Steve, in a low voice, “So that’s what you were going to ask, huh?” Steve shrugged, then nodded. “I want to be scientifically fascinated by that question, but I’m having some trouble getting past the _seriously_ reaction.” 

“I know what you mean.” Steve looked over. “He’ll be OK, though?” 

“Oh, yeah. Might take a little time,” Banner said. “It’s good that Tony’s here. Should speed things up.” 

Steve tapped Banner’s shoulder. “Keep me posted, will you?” He was looking at the corner where Sam and Natasha were blowing off the med wing techs. 

Banner was watching, too, but he broke off the moment Natasha looked their way. “I will. I’m going to do a pre-scan now so we’re set for Helen.” 

Then he took off, and Natasha and Sam walked over to him. “Good call on the outside door,” Sam said, and Steve nodded. They both smelled like battle: gunsmoke, bitter sweat, dirt. Steve never smelled it when he was fighting, but he knew it, and tonight it made him feel so lonely and weak, standing there in his clean khaki pants and a sweater against the constant chill. It made him want to bury his face in the bend of Sam’s neck or the crook of Natasha’s elbow. 

Instead, he said, “You guys wanna clean up before we debrief?” 

Sam laughed. “Better just get it over with.” 

And that was usually Steve’s line, coming off the plane exhausted, bloody, exhilarated, mind grinding down from the field to the conference room like a worn out gear. He always made the team debrief first thing, but tonight, he felt like it was asking too much. When he was the one sitting in the hot seat, answering for every mistake from the ground, he could endure it. Tonight, though they’d followed his orders, it would be different. 

“We don’t have to,” Steve said as they walked out of the dark hangar into the always-daylight glow of the interior hallway. 

Natasha shrugged. “I had a nice nap in the jet on the way back, and there’s nobody waiting for me upstairs.” She raised an eyebrow at Steve. “Don’t let me keep you up, though.” 

Steve rolled his eyes, punching the elevator button for the common floor. “Yeah, you’re really cramping my style, Romanoff.” 

Sam laughed, at least. They met Rhodes and Stark walking out of the common kitchen, both drinking the disgusting green juice drinks Stark still insisted on. “New recipe,” Stark said, lifting his glass. “Sure you won’t try, Cap?” 

“I’m pretty sure I’d have to run that by my doctors,” Steve said, and Stark made a face. 

“You guys debriefing?” Rhodes said, and Stark said, “Cap can’t do that without Banner’s permission. It’s like that with them.” 

“Steve, I had no idea,” Natasha said, and Steve shrugged. 

“I’m only with him for his body. Size matters,” he said, and Rhodes spit his green drink all over Stark’s back, which felt like a real victory. 

They all walked to the conference room together, where Fury was video conferencing with Hill and her newest protege. “That was definitely Kree blood,” Fury said. “I thought we had it all. Nice work.” 

Stark looked up from where he’d sat, somewhat gingerly, Steve noticed. He had taken a fall, though he’d brushed it off. “That’s it?” 

Fury shrugged. “You did well. What else do you want?” 

“Better coordination with the locals,” Steve said. “The first wave of responders nearly got fried.” 

“That’s mine,” Hill said. 

They broke down the three points that Steve wanted to discuss: the responders, the static in the line that had nearly made him misunderstand Natasha’s read on the perimeter guards, and the team’s response to Vision going down. 

“-- mission critical,” Fury said, and Sam rubbed his forehead. Steve could see how the energy had drained out of him, all of the mission’s adrenaline long gone. He probably hadn’t napped on the flight; he usually didn’t. 

“Yeah, I got that,” Sam said, “but he was stable, and we still had the lab to hit. Under fire. I don’t think --” 

“That technology is _priceless_ ,” Hill said. 

“‘That technology’ has a name,” Steve said. “I think we all understand the extra level of complexity that Vision brings to the team ---” 

“Complexity, that’s adorable,” Hill said. 

“-- but if we’re going to treat him like any other member of the team, that means making the same calls about medical treatment that we’d make with anyone else.” 

Fury huffed. “Right, except if one of you were hit like that, there’s no way you’d leave him sitting off to the side for fifteen minutes.” 

“No, but if it was my suit, I would,” Rhodes said. “I don’t like that comparison much, but I think it’s about apt because my suit could survive, and so could Vision. Wilson made the best call he could for the whole team.” 

“I agree," Steve said, though he knew he was going to have to figure this in to future plans. Fury had a point, of course: Hydra would probably love nothing more than to get a hold of Vision or, more critically, the technology that made Vision possible. He met Stark’s gaze across the table, thinking they’d need to have a conversation about a kill switch sometime soon. 

“Well, boss says it was fine, so that’s that,” Stark said. “Anything else, gents? You really don’t want to pay my overtime rates.” 

Fury waved them out, and Steve decided not to linger. There would probably be further team discussions, but for now, he wanted to check in on Vision, then hit the sack himself. Truth be told, despite spending the pre- and post-mission time resting, Steve was tired. 

“Well, yeah, man, you just got out of the hospital like five minutes ago,” Sam said, when Steve mentioned how stupid it felt to be tired when they’d just done all of the work. “In fact, maybe you should just hit your bunk now. Banner’s in with Wanda and Vision.” 

Steve thought about it for a second, then nodded. He trailed Sam to the elevator, and Sam said, “It went well, tonight,” as they rode up. 

“Yeah. You made a good call out there.” 

“It’s not so hard to make good calls,” he said, “when you feel like you’ve got good support.” Sam put a hand on Steve’s arm, and Steve didn’t bother to tell him he probably didn’t need the extra support tonight. They walked back to Steve’s apartment, and Steve thought he saw Sam’s eyes flick down to look at Steve’s mouth for just a second before he backed off. 

And oh, holy hell, Steve had been there, too, the adrenaline surge, the raw want, that came after a successful mission. “G’night,” Sam said, one hand a tight fist against his side. 

“Yeah,” Steve said, watching that hand, wanting it to open, to reach for him, “night.” 

When he went inside his own place, he let out a slow breath, hearing just the empty silence of his own apartment around him. 

One thing at a time, he told himself, but it didn’t make him feel any less alone. 

* * *

Stark and Banner managed to get Vision’s power sources working again the next day. Steve didn’t fully follow how they did it, in part because they talked over one another (and Vision) in explaining it, but the end result was a fully restored teammate who was able to provide some valuable real-time video of one of the confiscated weapons in action. 

“Are you all right?” Steve asked, sitting next to Wanda at one end of the long lab. Stark, Banner, and Vision were all staring at a wall of statistics and patterns on the other end. 

“I should be asking you.” 

“I’m fine.” Two hours in the clinic, a half-dozen tests run on blood he now felt the loss of, a half-hour spent in that twinkling gray partial-consciousness — that had all been his morning, before he could sluggishly move his feet down the hall, ride the nausea-inducing elevator up, collapse on his bed, and allow himself forty-five minutes of precious sleep before Stark had called to say Vision was cleared. His hands would be shaking if they weren’t jammed into the pockets of the jacket he had to wear because the entire building was so, so cold. “Seriously. I’m OK. I’m worried about you, though.” 

She shrugged. “I think perhaps every loss will feel worse for a while,” she said, and then tipped her head to one side. “Sam told me that.” 

“No losses this time, though,” Steve said, and Wanda touched his shoulder gently. He didn’t flinch because he’d trained himself not to be afraid of her touch, and that training held, even now. 

“No,” she said. “But enough, recently. Enough for all of us.” 

Steve nodded, staring across the room. “You’re OK working with Stark for a while?” 

She smiled, the thin, private smile that somehow reminded Steve most of her brother. “A man is not only his weapons,” she said. “I am learning that.” 

“Well, that’s a tough one, sometimes,” Steve said, and let her lean against his shoulder. 

Stark went home two days later. It surprised Steve to find that he was a little disappointed, though he would’ve rather eaten the Iron Man suit than tell Stark that. 

“Don’t worry, Gramps,” Stark said, as he said his goodbyes in the dining room, “I’ll be back for Halloween. We can trick or treat. You got a costume? Something sexy, maybe a maid outfit? Banner’s a little kinky.” 

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Steve said, and Stark grinned, wide and pleased. 

“You take care of yourself,” Stark said, and his tone was serious for just a moment before he said, “And look, there are hotlines, all right, I know he’s got a temper, so if Banner gets rough with you, even if you think you deserve it —“ 

“Jesus Christ, Tony,” Rhodes said, grabbing him by the shoulders and throwing him out into the hall. “You’re making domestic violence jokes, now?” Steve heard him saying, lecture already starting, and he smiled to himself. _Best friends_ , he thought, catching Sam’s eye across the room. 

“You want to do a little sleuthing tonight?” Steve asked as Sam settled next to him. 

“You’re not busy?” Sam said. 

“What?” 

“Just thought maybe if Banner had a break from the lab —“ Steve stared at him, alarmed, not exactly sure how to correct this, and then Sam cracked up. “Yeah, man, I’m free, I’m in.” 

They had a good evening that didn’t end with Steve sitting on his hands: instead, he fell asleep by 9 p.m. and woke to Sam gently rousting him. 

Steve took his medications obediently, wiping his wrist over his mouth after a drink of water. He set it on his beside and felt tired and old, and Sam said, “Think you’ll sleep OK?” 

“I’d sleep better if you’d stay,” Steve said, words slipping out unguarded. He kept staring at the wall, not even turning his eyes to where Sam had shifted his weight at the end of the bed. Instead of apologizing, letting it pass as something said out of exhaustion, Steve let the words hang. They were true. 

“Yeah,” Sam said, and Steve heard him rub one hand over his head. “All right.” 

Now he did turn, made himself look over. “You don’t have to,” he said, because it would be worse to sleep next to pity than an empty bed. 

“Yup,” Sam said, “but to be honest, I’ve seen you nearly choke to death twice in the last couple weeks. I don’t mind having the chance to make sure it doesn’t happen tonight.” 

Steve nodded, although he felt relief and disappointment at Sam’s admission. This was friendship, not — anything else. “I’m so tired, nothing’s happening tonight,” Steve said, then felt himself blush. 

“No kidding.” Sam stripped off his shirt, then stretched out on the bed. “Without a note from your doctor, this is all the action you’re getting.” 

Now Steve just felt pure relief, because this, the easy flirting, that was better than ignoring it. That said at least Sam wasn’t weirded out too much by Steve’s interest. “Banner’s way less hard to get than you,” Steve said, and Sam laughed. 

“Man, thinking about him hooking up with Natasha, that’s enough to give me nightmares.” 

The lights dimmed, and for a moment, Steve just listened to Sam’s breath and his own, the way they overlapped in the calm, cool darkness. Then he made himself say good night, softly, and close his eyes, and even if he wanted to stay awake and think of the possibilities, that was all it took for him to fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think my timeline on Sam being in Afghanistan is probably off, but I can't get it nailed down perfectly from the movies. If anyone has a theory on this, tell me!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve has a gift for Sam. (Not what you're thinking! Well, not yet).

In the morning, Sam was up and gone by the time Steve managed to get out of bed, and he tried to just think it made sense. He probably had training. Steve looked at the shield, lying idle against the wall by the bedroom door, then crept carefully to the bathroom. 

The next few days flew by. Steve was still worn out from medications, the recent trauma, the lingering cold, the weird hours, everything, so he spent a fair amount of every day in his apartment. Sam and Natasha, together or separately, stopped in just about every evening for dinner, sometimes bringing other team members along. He made it to at least lunch and threat assessment every day, but his doctors were very clear about the dangers of returning to any physically strenuous routine. Sam didn’t stay over again, but things weren’t strange between them. Steve had the feeling Sam had chalked the entire thing up to stress, which should have been a relief. 

It wasn’t, though. Nothing felt like a relief, not even having a mission again since they were in the thick of Balko planning. He tried to explain this when Garner showed up at his door again, the meeting not unexpected but still not entirely welcome. “I can’t really tell you what we’re doing,” he said. “But there’s a mission we’re planning for, and it would be perfect for me, but — I can’t go. So someone else has to.” 

“Isn’t that how a team works?” 

“A team only works if everyone can do their parts,” Steve said. 

“Leadership is a part.” 

“Sure,” he agreed. “But I’m just gonna sit up here, in total safety, while my teammates are in harm’s way? That’s not my role. I’ve never lead that way, never wanted to.” 

“You need to be in danger to feel you’re a part of the team?” 

Steve sighed. That wasn’t what he was trying to say. “No,” he said. “Look, during the war — my war — I sent guys out on missions sometimes. They had skills that I didn’t, could blend in. We had one guy who could do explosives, a guy who was a wiz with a radio. Bucky was a great shot, and I just — even after my vision improved, I never mastered it the way he did. I get that everyone has a different thing to contribute.” 

Garner nodded, silent. Steve wanted to leave it there, but he showed no sign of moving. He looked straight down at the ugly arm of his chair. “I’ve been willing to die for my men since the moment I had any to serve with,” he said. “That’s what I’ve got. That’s why people follow me. They know I’ll do whatever it takes, go through anything for them. So it’s kind of hard to meet their eyes, the morning after, when I’ve literally been napping while they’re flying toward possible death or when I’ve got to take a break during their warm-up sessions to get my inhaler reloaded.” 

“That’s interesting,” Garner said, and Steve wanted badly to throw something — his shield, the chair he was sitting on, maybe the good doctor’s neat little notebook — through his shatterproof windows. Instead, he took a long, slow breath, staring at his blank white ceiling. 

“I’d rather not talk about this anymore,” Steve said, when he looked down at Garner again. 

He nodded in a way that wasn’t reassuring. “Is there something else you would like to talk about?” 

“Do you think it’s OK if I sleep with someone?” 

Garner folded his hands. “Is that a euphemism?” 

“Oh, well,” Steve said, and looked past him to the windows again. “Um. Yes, and no. I mean, you’ve seen my medical file, and you’re a doctor.” 

“If you’re asking me whether you’re physically fit enough to engage in sexual activity, then I’d say maybe," Garner said. “The restriction on strenuous activity is still in effect, but short-term intense physical strain would be OK.” 

“Right,” Steve said, faintly, wondering how “short” would count as “short-term.” He pictured himself having to pull out an inhaler in bed and closed his eyes, though it did nothing to stop his creeping blush. 

“If you’re asking whether I think you’re mentally in a place where a new partner would be a good idea,” he said, “then let’s talk about it.” 

Steve sighed. “It’s not like that,” he said. “I’m not — I don’t think — I’m not looking for a, a partner, not a permanent thing. I’m not getting married,” he said, but it felt really slimy to say that. “I mean, that’s not the thing that people do anymore, is it?” 

Garner didn’t confirm that, just kind of tilted his head, which Steve was starting to understand meant he was mentally bookmarking something to come back to later. “So — a casual sexual encounter?” 

“I guess,” he said, though even spending the night next to Sam felt more intimate than some kind of casual hook-up. “I just. I can’t really date someone, you know?” 

“With someone you know, or a stranger?” Steve must have made a face because Garner laughed. “I see. You have someone in mind.” 

“Yeah,” he said. “I — I’m not sure that the interest is mutual, though. It’s just, something I was thinking about. And he said I’d need a note from my doctor though, in hindsight, that might have been a joke.” 

Garner nodded with a little, amused smile. “I’ll tell you what. Address this with Dr. Garcia, and if she gives you the physical green light, let’s talk about the mental issues.” 

“Sure, great,” Steve said, and realized he was going to put off those conversations for as long as possible. 

It wan’t as though he didn’t have other things to worry about. During the two or three meetings he was allowed to take every day, they were working on a plan of attack for Balko’s base in New York. Fury still wanted a two-person raid, something small and subtle with the strike team on call; Steve was arguing for the full complement because the element of unpredictability in Balko’s plans made him uncomfortable. As a compromise, they’d been running plans with Rhodes and Sam and Strike Beta, mocking up a couple of grab-and-dash scenarios in the simulator. 

“It’s a tight corner,” Steve said a few mornings later as they surveyed the last tape. “You’re getting your wings in faster, though.” 

Sam, sweat still streaming down his face, nodded. “I never get that one at the back, though. Too many obstacles.” 

“You need some ricochet,” Steve said, imagining that shot with his shield, and then he said, “Oh.” 

“What’s that?” Rhodes asked. He looked beat, too; Steve knew they needed to rest, so he waved it off, telling them again they’d done great. Then he sat in the viewing booth quietly for a few minutes before texting Natasha. She was there within 10. 

“I want to train Sam with the shield,” he said, and both of her eyebrows went up. 

“For the Balko mission?” 

“For now,” Steve said, and Natasha just nodded again. “Is that nod, ‘yes, Steve, great idea,’ or…?” 

She pursed her lips, just for a moment. He understood her pauses enough to know that this was pretty genuine; she was really thinking about what to say. “It’s not an easy piece of equipment to give back,” she said, finally. 

Steve shrugged. “That probably depends on who’s holding it,” he said. “And someone should be using it.” 

“Have you talked to Bruce yet about his tests?” 

“Oh, it’s Bruce now, is it?” Steve asked, standing up. He didn’t feel too bad, today; the morning nap had helped. Yesterday had been his last day on antibiotics, and they said he might get some appetite back soon. “If you guys get cutesy nicknames for each other, I’m telling Stark.” 

“Gross,” she said, and followed him out of the booth. “You should go talk to him. I think they’re getting close to something good down there.” 

Steve nodded. “I’m gonna start Sam tomorrow, if he’s up for it.” 

“Oh, he’s up for it,” she said, and her leer said clearly she was having a different conversation. “I’ll talk to Stark about a redesign to accommodate the weight on the wings.” 

“Oh. Right. Good idea,” Steve said. “And a carrying place. The wrist holder has been great.” 

Natasha gave him a critical up and down. “You think he’d fit in your uniform?” 

“I’m taller,” Steve said as they stepped into the elevator. 

“And that’s also not the ideal way to get him into your pants, huh?” She grinned when Steve groaned. “Come on, I can’t even tell you the sexual frustration I’m experiencing these days.” 

Steve snorted. “ _You’re_ frustrated? Natasha, I can’t even _box_ right now.” 

She stared at him for a second, then cracked up, bent over slightly with the weight of the laughter. “Oh, god, I don’t even care if that’s a euphemism, Rogers, I’m sorry.” She snickered again as the doors opened. “I guess there’s frustration and there’s frustration.” 

He paused, not sure whether to ask. The hall stretched out empty and cool in front of them. “Banner doesn’t want to —“ 

“Oh, he wants,” she said, with a flick of her hand that seemed to somehow indicate her own body. 

Steve felt like his eyes were going to pop out of his head. “You’re playing hard to get with _The Hulk_?” 

Natasha grinned, shark-like, predatory. “Waiting can make things more intense.” 

He laughed because his other instinct was to recoil in horror. “I guess,” he said. “I didn’t know you needed things to be more intense.” 

“The heart wants what it wants,” she said, same wry tone as always. 

They walked into the empty lunch room. Sam and Rhodes would both likely be late, thanks to their intense training, and Vision was working in the lab today with Banner. Wanda might wander in later, he thought, but he looked at the large platters of cut fruit and had to reassure himself that the staff would pass along the leftovers as free snacks on the bar floor that evening. 

As Natasha filled a bowl with melon pieces, Steve started to assemble a ham sandwich. Natasha swiped a piece of cheese even as he was reaching for it, then leaned backwards against the table to face him. She wagged her eyebrows up and down. “So I heard Sam stayed with you the other night.” 

“Slept,” Steve said, glancing up nervously at the window-lined hallway. Still empty. “Just slept. It was nothing. I, uh,” he said, and rubbed his hand over his own hair. 

“Oh,” Natasha said. She kept her eyes forward. “Nightmares?” 

“Something like that.” 

She nodded, then took her fruit to the table. Steve joined her with a sandwich and an iced tea. “You cleared for training again yet?” 

He shrugged. “No.” 

“Is that a real no, or an ‘I’m afraid of my doctors’ no?” 

The sandwich was good, and Steve wasn’t sure why. The cheese? Good bread? Had ham gotten better over the years? He let himself chew a full two bites before he answered. “I’m not afraid of my doctors,” he said. “I see them enough.” He took a drink. “Saw my head doctor yesterday.” 

“Is that Dr. Lear?” 

“Different kind of doctor. Dr. Garner. Psychology.” 

“Oh,” Natasha said. “How’s that all going?” 

Steve shrugged. “I don’t know. How’s it supposed to go?” 

“Fuck if I know.” 

“You can’t tell me no one’s ever tried to put you in therapy,” he said. 

“Tried is the operative word,” she said. “Look, I get it, but — my head’s been messed in enough.” She twisted in her chair so she was facing him. “For you, though, it’s good.” 

“That’s your professional opinion?” 

“Yeah,” she said, and then laid one hand gently against the side of his head, fingers curving up and over his skull, as though she was assessing the material within. “It is. Plus, clearly,” she said, drawing back, “Sam’s not gonna fuck you until you’re less crazy.” 

Steve almost choked on his sandwich. “Hey, speaking of life and death,” Natasha said as Steve reached for his inhaler, just in case, “let me say again, you ought to go and talk to Bruce. He thinks you’re avoiding him.” 

“Why would I be avoiding him? Oh, wait. Did he hear the stuff from Stark? I mean, you’d set him straight on that, right?” 

Natasha raised an eyebrow, then said, “He wants to talk to you about the anti-serum.” 

Ah. Steve remembered Banner mentioning that, in passing, but he maybe had been avoiding going down to hear the news in person. Garcia had been telling him he wasn’t recovering well, with her reports on his continually disappointing oxygen levels. They were thinking about making him wear the O2 again at night. He just wasn’t looking forward to another talk about lowering expectations. 

For once, Steve was doing everything they asked, and this was adding to his frustration. He was taking it easy. He used his inhaler exactly as he was supposed to and took his medications exactly on schedule. He checked in with Garcia daily. He was even still talking to Garner, for what that was worth, and still, still, things were getting worse. That morning, Garcia had told him that the level of good serum in his blood was the lowest they’d ever measured it. 

So the truth was, Steve didn’t want to talk to Banner because he thought his news might be actually pretty damn bad. 

But since he was doing everything he’d been told to do, he finished his lunch with Natasha and then texted Banner to see when it might be OK to stop by. _Now works_. 

Well, great. He briefly considered putting it off by saying he should rest, but that would, really, only delay the inevitable, and he was so damn tired of having to rest. 

Most of the labs were in the sub-basements, but Banner’s lab was not. This was actually the lab space that Stark had dedicated for himself. That meant that most of the time, it was free for any visiting scientists to poke around in, and also that it was a much more mechanical space than most of the biologically-focused labs below. However, Banner had the space now for two very good reasons: Stark’s equipment was the best in the building, and the main-floor lab space meant that if an accident turned Banner into the Hulk, he wouldn’t charge through multiple levels of unarmed agents and structural supports before emerging into daylight (and out of harm-causing way). 

It also meant he had gigantic glass windows on two sides of his lab, and Steve stared through those as he waited for Banner to finish some tricky calculation at his desk. Far away, he saw the twin exhaust trails that meant War Machine and the Falcon were having a bit of air time. The pang of longing he felt was so sharp he nearly had to sit down. Instead, he studied the steel-and-chrome work table beneath his fingers and hoped Banner would just get to the point. 

“I have good news and less good news,” Banner said, rolling his chair over. “But first, how are you doing?” 

Steve shrugged. “You know as well as anyone. Garcia said you’d been consulting on my files.” 

Banner hummed. “Yeah, but that’s not what I’m talking about.” He took off his glasses and rubbed the lenses with the tail of his shirt. 

It took him a minute, but then Steve understood. “Natasha,” he said, shaking his head. “Please tell me she didn’t put you up to some kind of man-to-man chat.” 

“She does her own man-to-man chats,” he said. “But she has expressed some… concern, about you, and you know, for her to show that — I just figured that wasn’t a great sign.” 

“Well, you tell me," Steve said, diverting away from the real question. He took a seat when Banner waved toward one, even though he would have preferred to have heard bad news while on his feet. 

Banner tapped a screen with his hand, and a virtual projection spring up between them. “So this chart shows serum concentrations in your blood. That’s before the anti-serum,” he said, pointing to a tall red column, “and this is right after.” The shorter column was so small as to almost be invisible. 

Steve nodded. He’d heard all of this before. Banner spread both hands, and the focus changed, zooming in to the smaller column and revealing five columns: the short one, a taller one, a middle-sized column, a very tall one, and then a very short one. 

“Uh — what are these?” 

“These are your serum readings over some significant events. First, just after injection with the Relief protocol. Then, this one, this is a spike — from your first major asthma attack. Then, the next day, it was back down again — but not as low as before. This big spike, that’s your last big asthma incident. I know Dr. Garcia’s already talked to you about this.” 

“Right.” Garcia had mentioned that his readings had been curious, he remembered. “So, wait. Whenever I’m really ill, the serum is, what, trying to make a comeback?” 

“Yeah!” Banner grinned. “There’s a connection to stress hormones and adrenaline. So that’s the good news. It’s still there.” 

“But it’s declining.” Steve pointed at the last, tiny column. “Garcia told me my recent readings are lower than they’ve ever been.” 

Banner nodded. “That’s the less good news. You’ve been really good this week, right? Your medi-track bracelet shows you’re right on target with taking your medication, having no unnecessary exertion, getting enough rest, all of that. That’s actually great, except you’ve had no reason for your adrenaline to rise, so…” 

“So the serum fades.” Steve rubbed his face with both hands. “Jeez. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t, huh?” 

“A bit," Banner said. “But let’s focus on the positive, all right? You’ve still got the good stuff in your veins, and it wants to get through. I can work with that.” 

“Yeah?” Steve looked up. “How?” 

He shrugged. “I’m running some simulations. Maybe we can figure out a way to simulate an adrenaline reaction.” 

“Like… being in danger somehow?” “I think that would be a bad way to do this,” he said. “I mean, dropping you off of Tony’s tower in New York might do it, but you’d just die at the end of the fall. The same goes for combat — the adrenaline rush you might get from that activity might, and I want to emphasize might, kick the serum back into gear, but — it might also make you so physically ill you wouldn’t recover even with the serum.” Banner tapped the spike column. “Here, it kicked in, and that might be what saved your life, but it didn’t stick around. So that’s the other piece I’m working on.” He tapped the screen again and the columns vanished. 

“Thanks," Steve said. “I mean it.” 

“Of course,” Banner said. “It’s the least I could do.” 

“Seriously, though. I know it’s been hard for you to come back here, but —“ 

“Oh, it has its perks,” he said. “Nice lab, anyway.” 

“Right,” Steve said, and wanted to smile because he really was pleased that Banner and Natasha might work out. He stood up and said, “I’ve been talking to someone. A therapist.” 

“Oh? Yeah? How’s that going?” 

Steve shrugged. “I just wanted you to know. I mean. So that Natasha knows, she doesn’t have to worry about — that. With me.” 

Banner nodded, slow, serious. “All right. Hey, Steve? Come by any time. I mean that. Any time.” 

It was such an echo of Steve’s own recent invitation that he felt briefly embarrassed. For crying out loud, Banner was — could be — _was_ his friend. “I will,” he said. “Uh, you know, we have lunch all together, just about every day. You should join.” 

“Yeah? I kind of thought that was only Avengers.” 

“Emeritus counts,” Steve said, “plus I’d like to see you there. It’s one of the only times I get out, these days.” 

He nodded. “Yeah, I’ll — probably tomorrow.” 

“Great. I think it’s pizza.” 

As he left, he wanted to feel better. After all, what Banner had said, that was hopeful news: Erskine’s serum was still there, still trying to work. And one reckless, meaningful part of him really wanted to go hurl himself at the hardest training simulations he could come up with, in the hopes that the serum would build back up. 

However, he thought again about Natasha’s cool blank face when she’d come to the hospital this last time, the fleeting panic in her voice when she’d told Sam to shut up, Sam’s warm hands cupping his own, Wanda’s visibly frightened face, and he knew it wouldn’t work. He let himself slump against the wall in the elevator and feel bad about it for the length of the ride to his floor, then he straightened up and asked the computer to send Sam a message. They needed to have a conversation. 

Steve crashed out in a nap so deep that he felt disoriented when he woke. The computer had chimed to let him know that Sam had left him a message in return, so he texted quickly and said he was available if Sam wanted to come by. He was standing at the sink, draining a glass of water, when Sam arrived, buzzed in by the computer. 

“Hey, man, what’s up?” 

Steve waved him over, still gasping from his last drink, and Sam walked over slowly. He had streaks of dirt across his face and smelled like clean sweat. Steve pulled down a new glass and filled it from the fridge, then offered it over. Sam nodded his thanks and drank it. 

“Saw you were out with Rhodes earlier.” 

Sam nodded again, holding his half-empty glass. “Still working those routines you and Natasha dreamt up. I’d kick your ass if they weren’t so damn good.” 

Steve managed to smirk. “Glad to be of use.” 

Sam leaned against a tall bar chair, then kind of fell onto the seat. Steve could almost feel the exhaustion rolling off of him, and he wondered, briefly, what it meant that Sam would come to him before a shower, before anything else. With anyone else he realized he would have called a meeting for the next day, set up a little time in the conference room after lunch or caught up after training. He never invited Rhodes up to his apartment, never dropped in on Wanda unexpectedly, rarely contacted Natasha through more than text message when they didn’t have a scheduled meeting. Yet with Sam, this felt normal, natural, easy even to say, “If you’re wiped out, I can catch you later.” 

“Guess it depends on what you’re laying on me,” Sam said, raising an eyebrow. 

Steve nodded. “I have something I want to add to your training regimen.” 

“Aw, no, here we go,” Sam said, resting his chin on one hand. “What is it?” 

“This,” Steve said, and lifted the shield up from behind the counter. It still fit him, still felt natural in a one-handed grip, but he didn’t have the strength or the endurance to honor it at the moment. 

“You — what?” Sam set down the water, then rubbed his face with both hands. “Steve,” he said, voice quiet, “did the doctors say something? Are you — all right?” 

Steve managed a real laugh, then, surprised. “I’m fine. Or, as fine as yesterday,” he said. “Actually, I had a good meeting with Banner today. Oh, hey, did you eat yet?” 

“I — no,” Sam said, “no. I haven’t had much time. What with training hell and now you losing your damn mind, I didn’t catch dinner.” 

“Great. I could order something?” 

“Uh-huh, whatever.” Now Sam rubbed both hands over his hair, then stood up. “OK, tell you what, you do that, get some food, and I’m gonna get a shower, and then I’ll come back and you can explain all of this.” 

Steve agreed. He settled on Chinese because it had been so good with Natasha, and he asked for more food than they’d need so Lita wouldn’t worry. Then he texted Natasha to let her know he’d broken the news to Sam, and her reply blinked up around the time Sam walked back into Steve’s apartment. 

_So how’s that going?_

Sam wore black shorts and a trim white T-shirt and had bare feet and wet hair, still, and Steve almost dropped his phone. _Going fine,_ Steve said, _but I need to get cleared for boxing stat._

“So talk to me,” Sam said, taking a seat on the other end of the couch. “What’s going on?” _I could forge you a doctor’s note,_ she wrote back, _but only if boxing is a euphemism for sex._

Steve clicked the screen off on his phone and slid it into his pocket. “Let’s eat, then talk, all right?” 

He explained his plan over the delivered Chinese food. Sam crunched through an egg roll and said, “A loan. Right?” 

Steve nodded, leaving unspoken how they couldn’t be sure that it would be temporary. “But I was thinking, we could repaint it, if you want.” 

“I actually would like that,” Sam said. “Otherwise —“ He stopped. “Look, I’m, I’ll be totally honest. I’m pretty flattered you’d actually give it to me. But I think, you know, for the team, it’d be a pretty big deal if I just showed up with the Captain America shield on my arm all of the sudden, so I want to be totally clear: this is just the shield. You’re still in charge.” 

“Yeah,” Steve said. “You think I should talk with everyone else?” 

“Oh, yeah,” Sam said. “I definitely think this news better come from you.” 

Though he hadn’t thought about it before, Steve knew this made sense. “I’ll set it up for tomorrow. Lunch time. If — that is, if you want to carry it.” 

“Uh, yeah, I want to carry it,” Sam said, and then he held out his hand and took the shield, just holding it, feeling that perfect balance, the remarkable lightness, the strange solidness that the vibranium had. Steve had never felt anything quite like it; he could tell Sam already understood its value. A wide grin crept over his face. “You’re gonna help me learn the ropes, right?” 

“As much as I ever have.” Steve grinned in return, watching Sam hold the shield. He’d expected to feel more disappointment, more uselessness, maybe, but what he really felt was relief. Sam would be so good at this. “I’m sure you’ll be a natural.” 

“Uh-huh,” Sam said, but he smiled and set the shield down on the counter. “So what else you got goin’ on? You said you had a good talk with Banner?” 

They chatted about Steve’s meeting with Banner, about Sam’s workout with Rhodes, about the way that it was impossible now _not_ to see that Vision and Wanda were somehow involved, and as they talked, Sam’s hand occasionally strayed over and gave the shield a little, gentle pat, as though reassuring himself that it was still really there. When he got up to leave, Steve said, “Wait a second.” 

Sam turned, eyebrows raised but smile still easy. “More surprises?” he asked. 

Steve shook his head and held out the shield. “You almost forgot something, is all.” 

Sam looked down at it in wonder, then said, “Maybe it should stay with you. Tonight, I mean. It’s — tell the team, then, I can take it.” He gripped it briefly, right next to Steve’s hand, then slid his hand over and squeezed Steve’s forearm. “Good-night.” 

“Night,” Steve said, appreciating the contrast between the warmth left where Sam had just gripped him and the icy surface of the shield for a moment. Then, he texted Natasha two more times and decided to go to bed.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve gets to go on a mission.

The next morning, he had the answer to his text messages. “Ava Lourdes,” Natasha said, carrying in two paper cups of coffee and a covered tin dish. Steve had only just gotten out of the shower and dressed and was studying his empty refrigerator. 

“Thanks. Who’s that?” 

“Trainer for Kelsey Montrose, Daren Cutler, Jesse Brandeis, and a couple of others. Olympic athletes,” she said, and Steve rolled his eyes because yeah, he’d heard of them. He couldn’t buy a Coke the year before without seeing their faces on the front. “Did you know Jesse Brandeis has asthma?” 

“I didn’t.” 

“Turns out this trainer, doctor, whatever she is, she’s got a little bit of a sub-specialty dealing with athletes who have other physical challenges.” She tapped the screen of her phone, and Steve felt his own buzz in his pocket. “I’ve sent you her resume and some relevant clips.” 

“She sounds like someone I should talk to, huh?” 

“I’ve already set up a video conference this afternoon,” Natasha said, and widened her eyes when Steve looked at her. “What?” 

They spent the rest of their short breakfast and then the ride down to the Avengers’ training floor mostly talking about how, in Natasha’s words, Steve had lost an excellent opportunity to get spectacularly laid the night before by not reintroducing the idea with Sam. 

“You think he’d sleep with me just for the shield?” 

“ _I’d_ sleep with you for the shield,” she said, grinning briefly to let him know it was a joke, “and so would half of the free world, so yeah. Moreover, I think he’d be more receptive to your clumsy old man advances when he’s just been given one of the keys to the superhero kingdom.” 

Steve wanted to roll his eyes, but he thought she probably had a point. Yet somehow, he didn’t want it to happen that way with Sam. He was reasonably certain he’d earned Sam’s friendship by being Steve Rogers, not just Captain America; he wanted to be just as sure that any other type of relationship they tried was based on the same merit system. 

Instead of saying any of that to Natasha, though, he just said, “I’ll take it under advisement,” partly because Sam and Wanda were walking down the hall toward them. 

“Hey, team meeting,” Steve said, pointing toward the conference room. 

“Yes, I got your message,” Wanda said, one eyebrow raised. “Vision will be a few minutes late.” 

“Oh?” 

She nodded. “He’s working on a particularly difficult experiment in his lab that had a time-sensitive element. With, ah, hydrazine.” 

“Oh,” Steve said, and shrugged. Whatever Vision was getting up to, it was always going to be less troubling than the crap Stark was playing with. 

“Hydrazine,” Natasha said, sounding more interested — in the way that made the hairs on Steve’s arms stand up. “If I find out he’s building a hydrogen bomb —“ 

“It’s something to do with rural water replacement,” Wanda said, taking her seat at the table. “Stark is teleconferencing.” 

“That’s reassuring,” Steve said, tone dry, but he actually meant it. Vision reined in some of Stark’s worse impulses, but Stark’s creativity pushed Vision to new discoveries. They made a good team. 

Rhodes walked in a few minutes late, toweling off his hair. “Sorry, lost track of time,” he said. He fell into the seat next to Sam and they exchanged a brief greeting while Steve stood at the front of the room. Something about this felt wrong, too much like he was about to give orders instead of have a conversation, and yet he couldn’t think of how else to do it. 

“So, as you all know,” he started. 

Twenty minutes later, the meeting was over, and Sam and Natasha were cracking up. “That was the worst meeting I’ve ever been to,” Natasha said, again. 

“You’ve been tortured,” Steve said, and Natasha shrugged. 

“Uh-huh.” 

Steve frowned and took a seat. “It wasn’t that bad.” 

“It was kind of that bad,” Sam said, grinning. “I particularly liked the part where everyone thought you were going to die.” 

“And then everyone thought you were having a baby,” Natasha said, and the two of them dissolved into giggles again. 

Steve sighed. “That was an unfortunate choice of words,” he said. In hindsight, the metaphor about the shield being his child hadn’t been the best idea. “But seriously, do you think everyone’s OK?” 

“Other than the head trauma that meeting just caused? Yes,” Natasha said. “It’s logical. Wanda doesn’t want the shield, Vision and Rhodes don’t need it, and that just leaves us.” She grinned across the table at Sam. “And I’m better with my hands.” 

“And like 800 concealed EMPs,” Sam said, but he smiled back. Steve felt a small stab of guilt: It actually hadn’t occurred to him that Natasha might benefit from using his shield. Then again, strategically, she was primarily involved in espionage and technical details; Sam was boots on the ground (or in the air). The shield couldn’t program a computer. 

“Good,” Steve said. He rubbed a hand over his stomach. “I’m gonna get some more coffee. You guys?” 

“Training,” they said in near-unison, and Steve just nodded. It almost didn’t hurt to hear that, anymore. “You free after lunch for a while?” Sam asked. 

“I — oh, yeah, for the shield? Sure.” Sam said he’d reserve the simulator, and they all agreed to meet again at lunch. Steve neglected to mention that Banner might be joining them; why let Natasha have all the fun? 

He did need to get a new cup of coffee, but that morning, he carried it out to the A-bar, where Andrew Garner was waiting for him in a corner booth. Steve wondered just how well the man knew Fury to have clearance to just roam the building like this, and then he decided to ask. 

Garner shrugged. “I’m friends with the director. My ex-wife is actually a fairly high-ranking S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent.” 

“Anyone I’d know?” 

“Possibly,” Garner said, and then grinned. “But just like I’d never tell her your name, I think I’ll spare you hers.” 

“This will be awkward when I see you guys at the Christmas party,” Steve said, and Garner laughed. 

“It won’t be even in the top ten of strange things at a SHIELD Christmas party.” 

“Fair.” 

That morning, Steve could feel that Garner wanted to pick up where they’d left off, talking about how he felt his own willingness to sacrifice was one of his great gifts. As he asked a warm-up question, though, Steve said, “I think I made a decision that you’ll like.” 

Garner raised an eyebrow. “For a moment, I’ll go ahead and skip the speech about how you definitely shouldn’t be considering my approval in your actions and ask what you’re talking about.” 

So Steve told him about Banner’s discovery, the possibility that really getting into danger might create a resurgence of the serum, and how he had decided not to actively pursue that danger. “In fact, I gave up my shield.” 

Garner sat up, just a little, in the booth. “Your — badge?” 

“No, my shield,” he said, and sketched a circle in the air. “Sam — that’s Falcon — is going to use it for a while.” He leaned back into the booth, sipping his coffee. “He’ll be good. It’s a good fit.” 

Garner’s face had somehow stilled in a way that made Steve immediately uncomfortable. “You gave away your shield.” 

“It’s a loan,” Steve said. 

“You have a plan for getting it back?” 

He shrugged. “Not exactly.” 

Garner leaned in, then, elbows on the table and focus so perfect that Steve actually wished he still had the shield. “If you’re feeling suicidal, I need you to tell me.” 

“This again,” Steve said, sighing, and picked up his coffee. “I’m not. I’m fine.” 

“You gave away your shield. It’s fairly textbook behavior to give away valuable belongings before attempting suicide,” Garner said, and he narrowed his eyes. “Do you have any missions planned in the next few days?” 

“Not that I know of,” Steve said. “Granted, we don’t always get advanced warnings, but my calendar is clear. I do have a meeting with an Olympic trainer this afternoon, I’m kind of excited about that,” Steve said. 

Garner still didn’t pick up his drink again, but his face lost some of its wooden-shock quality. “Trainer?” 

Steve nodded and told Garner about Natasha’s coach. He must have found that reassuring enough because he dropped the suicide talk for a while, at least, and they spun out from Lourdes to talking about Steve’s other missions. “Well, and, you know, Bucky,” Steve said, after listing his other concerns in the best circumspect way that he could. 

“That would be your friend from the 40s?” 

“Best friend, yeah,” Steve said. “Who was kept just about as frozen as I was for a while. It’s endemic, apparently, among guys from our neighborhood.” 

“Not sure I would have liked growing up on your street, then. Tell me more about him. Bucky.” 

And Steve did, in part because it was nice to hear someone else — someone besides Sam, who was pretty good about taking Steve’s lead in how to talk about Bucky — actually using his name, or his nickname, instead of calling him _Sergeant Barnes_ or the _Winter Soldier_ or something. Steve could think about Bucky in both of those ways: he’d been his commander in the war, after all, and he’d faced him in pretty lethal combat. He just didn’t like to do it. For him, recovering Bucky wasn’t some kind of military mission. It was about friendship and loyalty. It was about a trust he felt he’d betrayed nearly 80 years ago, a trust he wanted a chance to rebuild. 

“And he’s about the only guy who probably won’t bat an eye at all of this,” Steve said, gesturing to himself. 

“This being —“ 

“Oh, just, he’s seen me pretty, uh, sick before,” Steve said. And wasn’t that the truth? Of course, growing up, Steve’s asthma had been serious. As a kid, it had probably been just about as bad as it was now, knocking him down every week or two, sending him and his mom scrambling to the hospital for a treatment they could hardly afford. It had tapered off as he’d gotten older, though it hadn’t ever fully gone away. He could remember getting sidelined at Basic Training once, Erskine’s eyes both sympathetic and searching while Steve sat in the medical tent, breathing from a mask hooked to a giant contraption. He could remember telling them he was fine even while he could see the reflection of his bluish lips in the scratched mirror. “You know, it’s really pretty miraculous, the way things have improved since then,” he said, pulling out his tiny inhaler. 

Garner grinned. “So you like the future, huh?” “Most of the time,” Steve said. 

“Hey, speaking of the future, anything else we need to talk about?” 

“Like what?” 

“Did you get cleared to have sex?” 

Steve coughed to cover a nervous laugh. “Oh. I, uh. I didn’t ask. I — I don’t think, it’s not a good time.” 

“No?” Garner raised one eyebrow. “Seemed like you were thinking it was a good time last time we talked.” 

“Well, it kind of takes two people to agree on that,” he said. 

“Ah. Did you approach your potential partner?” 

“No, nothing like that,” he said, thinking of Sam, smiling, his easy, friendly grip on Steve’s arm the night before. “It’s just — sometimes, you know, you have a kind of friendship that maybe doesn’t need anything added. The risk seems pretty great.” 

“The reward, though, can be even greater,” Garner said, and now Steve raised an eyebrow. 

“I thought you wanted me to be a little less risky.” 

Garner smiled. “I want you to be you,” he said. “The best you. You’re not gonna get advice from me, but it’s interesting to hear how risk averse you are in some situations. Let me ask you something. Does this have to do with Bucky?” 

Now Steve startled. “What?” 

“You mentioned a friendship so valuable that adding another element would be too risky. He’s your best friend —“ 

“Was,” Steve said. “The Bucky that’s out there — he may not be the same guy.” 

“How does that make you feel?” 

“Oh, you know, great,” Steve said, and Garner kept staring at him. “Last time I saw him, he saved my life. And tried to kill me, but then he saved my life. So I think — whoever he is now, it’s fine. I’m not the same guy that went into the ice, either, even if I’m starting to resemble him a little more every day.” 

Mercifully, Garner let up on Bucky and they wandered into easier, almost chatty territory, and Steve was even able to run a few team-related questions by him before his own phone chirped to let him know it was time for lunch and medications. 

“You look better,” Garner said. 

Steve nodded. “I feel all right,” he said, and then shook his hand and said thanks. Of course, that wasn’t entirely true. Steve didn’t feel better, not exactly. He just felt like he’d started to stabilize, like he was finally getting over that last big hospital stay, and like people weren’t looking at him with surprise and pity these days. They weren’t surprised by his infirmity anymore. 

A med tech met him in the hallway with just a small metal cup of medication, and Steve took it, then allowed the tech to take duplicate readings in case the medi-track bracelet wasn’t doing its job. “Everything looks fine, Captain,” the tech said, and he nodded and thanked her, then felt silly for thanking her. Inside, his team had assembled already for lunch: soup and salad and a couple of cheesesteak sandwiches. Banner was at the far end of the room, munching on salad and chatting with Rhodes, while Natasha and Sam and Wanda were staring at a tablet close to the door. Steve crossed to Banner, who was also near the food. “Nice to see you,” he said, and Banner nodded. 

“You guys definitely get better grub than that vending machine Tony rigged up,” he said. “It curses at you if you go for the healthy options.” 

Rhodes rolled his eyes. “You should have seen the fight he got into with Pepper over what they can serve at the Stark Industries cafeteria.” 

“Oh, she won, right?” Banner said. “Their kale salad is fantastic.” 

“I know,” Rhodes said, and they were off comparing notes. Steve grinned and nodded along, helping himself to more soup than anything else. Garcia had warned him that his anemia had reached levels where they would need to consider an IV drip that would speed absorption. It would only take a couple of hours in the hospital, she’d said, and Steve had put it off for a while, citing mission responsibilities. In truth, he just didn’t want to go back to the hospital yet, so today, he took the soup because his hands were freezing. 

“That is adorable,” Wanda was saying as Sam tapped on the tablet. 

He handed it over to her. “There are about eight hundred other videos like it. Heck, there’s probably 8 thousand by now. Steve just about wept.” 

“What’s that — oh. The baby goats?” he said, and Wanda nodded, already watching a new video. “I mean, who designed the coats, that’s what I’m wondering. That takes some real dedication.” 

“You know they dressed up one with a Captain America cape, right?” Natasha asked, and Steve grinned. 

“I’m not even offended,” he said, which he often was when he saw the old comics, drawn while he was in the ice, which depicted a superhero-type cape. “Those guys would find use for a cape.” 

“Like eating it,” Sam said, but he was grinning warmly. 

Vision walked in a few moments later, so the whole team was together, and it was, well, really nice. They just sat and ate and chatted, not about anything official or the world ending or even the upcoming Balko raids, just… stuff: Rhodes was reading a new spy thriller; Banner had found a trove of bicycles when cleaning out a closet in the lab storage; Natasha thought the weather that weekend might be good enough for hang-gliding practice; Wanda had mistakenly ordered 12 dozen boxes of a favorite Sokovian candy to be delivered to their drop point instead of a single box of a dozen, so she had contributed some to their food table; and Sam wanted to let everyone know he’d be traveling down to New York in a few weeks for his old service buddy’s bachelor party. 

“So if you all could please refrain from blowing up the whole damn city, I’d appreciate it.” He grinned as he said the rest. “If you can’t manage that, aim for Wall Street. None of my people are up there.” 

They pledged to do their best, and Steve’s brain actually shifted into leadership mode just hearing this. The best time to strike Balko was soon. Everything pointed toward complacency in his current patterns. He’d been spotted near Brooklyn three times in the last few weeks. Steve didn’t like that for a number of reasons, partly because it was his home turf, partly because if Balko felt comfortable enough to stay in the same place for that length of time, something was about to happen. Either Balko was getting comfortable because he had a plan with a definite timetable and didn’t need to worry much longer about whether the Avengers knew his location, or he was so dumb that he didn’t realize they knew where he was hiding. Either way, getting him out of the way sooner rather than later was the best strategy. 

He had this knocking around in his head when he walked into the simulator with Sam, but it left his mind within a few seconds. Sam came in wearing his training uniform — at least, that’s what Steve thought of it as. It didn’t make sense to train in full gear always; for instance, today, when they were going to work on ground moves and getting used to the shield, it wouldn’t matter if he had access to the wings or not. The wings were expensive and, more than that, complicated to fix when they broke, so it was better practice to leave them locked up when they weren’t needed. However, Sam had to be able to maneuver with a similar weight, so he wore a mocked-up backpack for training. It was small and not heavy — the wings compacted to a little under 25 pounds, now that Tony had been messing with them. It also wasn’t regulation: Sam and Natasha had pretty much just destroyed a military-grade backpack by sewing weights inside. Their results were hard to argue with, in terms of giving Sam the experience he needed. 

That day, he was wearing the rest of his training uniform: cargo pants, solid boots, and a sleeveless gray urban camo shirt that definitely didn’t hide the definition of his arms. When he stretched in the doorway, warming up, the shirt rode up just a bit, revealing just a swipe of bare stomach and a dark trail of hair, and Steve had to look away. At least he was going to get to throw the shield around a little, now; he needed _some_ kind of release. 

They spent forty-five minutes with the shield. Regardless of what Steve had told him, it wasn’t possible to be an instant natural with this shield. Its metal was so light and yet so solid it was even hard to describe the way it felt. Of course, no one, not even Steve when his senses were at their peak, noticed the vibrations of everyday objects as they flitted from hand to hand; yet with the vibranium, he noticed the stillness, the absence of movement. It was like staring into the sun versus staring at a bright lamp. 

“This is seriously cool,” Sam said, zinging the shield in one more Z-patterned sweep. He hit two of his four targets, which wasn’t bad at all, considering Steve could see his arm was getting tired. The shield swung back, and Sam caught it but staggered. Steve reached out and steadied him with a hand on his far shoulder, behind where he’d caught the shield. 

“It’s the best shield money can’t buy,” Steve agreed, squeezing lightly, ignoring the warmth, as he backed away. 

“Give it one more. So I can remember what it should look like,” Sam said, passing it over. 

Steve had thrown it a dozen or so times during their practice. It didn’t wear him out, much, to do this, and it certainly didn’t get his heart rate going to a dangerous level (though proximity to a sweaty, smiling Sam wasn’t helping that readout). He still felt the weight of it like instinct, still snapped his wrist in the quick-sharp cut that he’d learned during the war, still knew before it had even left his fingers where it would hit and snap and rebound. He’d squeezed in just enough practice since the anti-serum had hit that he could use it, well, for short spurts. He still loved the way it fell back into his grasp like he was a magnet. 

Sam grinned, shaking his head. All four targets lay in simulated pieces on the floor. “End simulation,” Steve said, and the room faded briefly to black before settling on a neutral blue. He let the shield go back to Sam, easily. “Same time tomorrow?” 

They stepped into the hall, and Sam shook his head. His hairline glistened with sweat, but he wasn’t breathing hard. “Tell the truth,” he said, as they turned toward the elevators. “All that time, you weren’t on ice. You were in some skanky Brooklyn arcade playing one of those games where you knock over milk bottles, right?” 

Steve grinned back. “You caught me. I’ve got a warehouse full of raggedy midway teddy bears stashed away near Canarsie.” And again, seeing the way Sam looked at him, watching him laugh and then briefly reach out, squeeze Steve’s shoulder, draw a little too close — Steve felt like he hadn’t been wrong about this. There was something here, and he was still feeling pretty uncertain about whether ignoring it was the right course of action. 

That afternoon, though, he didn’t have a choice. “You headed upstairs?” Sam asked. 

Steve shook his head. “Gotta take this meeting Natasha set up for me.” He described the trainer, and Sam nodded, serious but interested. 

“Good luck,” he said. “Ring me up if you want to do Bucky hunt tonight, all right?” 

“Yeah. Thanks.” 

Natasha was in the conference room when Steve walked in, her feet kicked up on the glass table. “At least tell me you made out a little,” she said, and Steve shook his head and sat down. 

“I’m saving my energy,” he said. “So tell me more about this coach.” 

She gave him a swift run-down, and then they met her by video. Natasha led, speaking Russian, and then after a few warm-up minutes, Coach Lourdes took over in sharp, accented English. She explained her theories and results and gave him a critical eye and a short lecture about the dedication she expected. 

“That won’t be a problem,” he said, and Natasha nodded next to him, backing him up. 

They agreed Lourdes would fly out for an evaluation in two days. “I must tell you, some of my methods, they are, ah, not ordinary. Unorthodox, they say.” 

“That’s not a problem for me, ma’am,” Steve said. 

“You should have Garcia review everything she suggests,” Natasha said right after the camera went off. “Particularly supplements or drugs.” 

“Garcia’s just gonna tell me no if I ask her.” 

“No,” Natasha said, “she’s going to advise you against things, unless they’re actually terrible, life-threatening ideas, in which case she would tell you no, probably by going through Fury.” She grinned. “And maybe me.” 

“Yeah.” Steve yawned so hugely his jaw popped. “Speaking of Garcia’s wrath, I gotta get back to my quarters. This is the longest I’ve been out since I got out of the hospital. There’s probably five or six alarms going off downstairs.” 

She nodded. “You feel OK?” 

He shrugged. “Tired," he said, which was honest and an understatement. “See you tomorrow.” 

He had good intentions of taking only a short nap, but his body had other ideas, and he slept clear through to morning, save for a brief break to eat a couple of little cups of yogurt as dinner. Though he’d felt excited after the meeting with Lourdes, his bone-deep exhaustion kept his enthusiasm to a very low simmer. All of her plans would be for nothing if he couldn’t get a little more energy. 

So the next morning, he stopped into the med wing and found Davis waiting. “I saw some of your readings from last night when I came on shift,” he said, offering a half-smile. That morning, he was wearing bright blue scrubs with giant neon Hawaiian-print flowers all over them. “I thought maybe I’d see you today.” 

“I was looking for fashion tips,” he said, and Davis laughed. 

“You’ve come to the wrong place. I still let my grandma dress me half the time.” His grin was full, now, and Steve couldn’t tell if he was joking. “Come on, let’s get you settled in your usual spot and I’ll get Dr. G.” 

Garcia had been expecting him, too, and was waiting with a new batch of neutral-to-bad news. His blood counts showed his anemia was now too significant to be treated with just the oral iron, and they would need to switch either to injections or an IV session to correct it. Neither sounded particularly exciting, but the injections would only take a few minutes, so Steve opted for those. 

Second, she wanted to talk about Ava Lourdes. Natasha hadn’t exactly gone through official medical channels to recruit her. “I’m not sure how much you know about her methods,” she said, and Steve shrugged. 

“I’ve mostly heard about her results.” 

She nodded, and she seemed about as nervous as she had when first trying to tell Steve about his new limits. “For Olympic athletes, of course, there are blood tests for certain chemicals. Others, however —“ 

“Oh,” he said, and crossed his arms. “You think she helps people with, uh, doping?” 

“Performance enhancers, yes,” Garcia said. “I don’t know Ms. Lourdes personally or even professionally, but I have worked with quite a few people with special capabilities.” Her gaze hardened, her focus narrowing. “Your medical conditions won’t limit your actions forever.” 

“We don’t really know that,” he said. 

“Yes, we do,” Garcia argued, unfolding her hands. “Even with the stabilization in the last week, there are marked changes in your condition. Staying the same course you’re on right now, you’ll be cleared for light duty in a matter of weeks. And we have the technology and the training here to help you form a plan of action toward reaching the best results. The healthiest results.” 

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re not going to promise I can do anything I want?” 

“No,” Garcia said. “And anyone who does is a liar.” 

Steve sighed. “I’ll keep it in mind.” 

Davis gave the injection, cracking a joke right as he slid the needle in, and Steve barely felt it. They said he’d feel better gradually and told him to expect to come back next week for another shot. “But you stay out of here until then,” Davis said, making a shooing motion as Steve rolled down his sleeve. “I’ve got a date this weekend.” 

“Yeah? Going somewhere fun?” Steve asked. He was waiting on Garcia to bring back a printed sheet describing the effects of the injection versus the IV treatment. Reading it on paper would be easier. 

“Maybe,” Davis said. “Third date, though, so we might be staying in.” He wagged his eyebrows, and Steve laughed. 

“Sounds like a good time.” 

“You ever get time off like that?” 

Of course he thought of Sam. “Not lately.” 

Davis nodded, sympathetic. “Guess it’s kind of hard to get out much out here, huh?” 

Steve shrugged. “I’m not even sure I’m cleared for that kind of fun these days.” 

“Oh, you are,” Davis said, almost casually, so assured. 

“Really?” 

He nodded. “It’s on the list of approved activities.” He narrowed his eyes. “Should I get you a print out of that one, too?” 

“Might be a good idea,” Steve said, surprised he couldn’t feel the heat on his face when he rubbed one hand over it. 

Sure enough, a few lines above _swimming_ was _sexual intercourse_. 

Well. He folded the instructions and tucked them in his pocket. If Sam ever really asked for a doctor’s note, he was ready. 

* * *

That night, Fury called him over to discuss new intel. “They’re on the move,” he said, gesturing to the the screen. A semi trailer had just left a warehouse in Baltimore, gleaming in night vision. “That cargo was registered through about eight dummy companies and holding entities, but Vision traced it all to a lump-sum payment matching some of the stolen information that Balko had in his possession.” 

“So it’s his. What’s in it?” 

“Construction equipment,” Sharon said, as three screens of X-ray images flitted past. “We think it’s actually hiding high-tech weaponry. That’s what he’s been promising to sell, at least.” 

Steve had been pulled out of the pool to attend the meeting, and he rubbed absently at his still-drying hair. At least he’d had time to change into a T-shirt and running pants before hitting Fury’s office, though he felt like the smell of chlorine was filling the room around him. Neither Fury nor Hill seemed to care; Sharon was beaming in from her office in D.C. “Do we know where they’re headed?” 

“Delivered the payload to his safe house about an hour ago.” The scene changed, suddenly, to fuzzy street-camera images of the same truck stopping briefly in a long, narrow parking lot next to a long, low-slung building. 

“Is that a school?” Steve asked, alarmed. 

Hill nodded. “Out for the weekend, and not their target.” She clicked a remote and the picture focused on four men carrying a large white crate through the parking lot and down an alley before disappearing. “They took it into a townhouse.” 

“Residential. Great,” Steve said. 

Fury crossed his arms. “It gets better. Look who delivered it.” 

Steve squinted at the screen as the images changed, again, to color, the focus crisp and clear. He recognized the guy right away, and he shot Fury a look. “Old friend of yours, huh?” “Batroc is no friend of mine,” Fury said. “He’s a mercenary.” 

“And yet you paid him —“ 

“Right,” Fury said. “And that suspicion turned out to be warranted. Right now, though, we need to pay attention to him because I’m _not_ the one who’s hiring his services.” He clicked through a few more photos that showed Batroc clearly guarding the payload at the Baltimore warehouse, a small crew of rough-looking fighters with him. 

Steve recognized one guy; he’d given and received a pretty good fight from him the summer before. “That’s a strike team.” 

“Yup,” Hill said. “More importantly, it’s a strike team composed of roughly six guys who all have wanted tickets in the U.S. right now.” 

“Which gives us legal clearance to act,” Sharon said. She was working, ostensibly, for the CIA, but in some capacity where she seemed to report to Hill with regularity. 

“Are we waiting for clearance, these days?” Steve asked, actually wondering. 

Fury shrugged. “Depends on how beat up you wanna get at your next Capitol Hill session.” 

He nodded. “School’s back in on Monday?” 

“Labor Day,” Hill said. “So you’ve got until Tuesday.” 

“Does he have a buyer for the weapons yet?” 

“A couple,” Hill said, and she and Sharon offered a pretty thorough presentation on the possibilities, all of them splinter groups at the fringe of their own radical violent movements, all of them enemies of the Avengers. “We think he’s promising a demonstration early next week some time.” 

Sharon chimed in. “There’s been increased traffic the last few days.” 

Steve glanced at Fury, who was scowling. “He’s got to know that we know about most of this.” 

“Yeah,” Fury said, “but as far as he knows, SHIELD is a disorganized heap at best and the Avengers have their full attention on Hydra. So maybe he doesn’t care.” 

“Maybe,” Steve allowed, but he still didn’t like it. “Full team, plus back up.” 

“Yeah,” Fury said. “I think we’re agreed.” 

They planned for a Monday night strike, right on Labor Day, with the agreement that round-the-clock surveillance would make pushing the op up by twelve hours an available option. After Hill had left and Sharon was off the line, Steve said, “I want to coordinate from the ground.” 

Fury gave him a level, hard stare. “How, exactly, do you see that going?” 

“The surveillance team will have a set up,” he said. “I’ll ride with them. I’m not going back in the field, but if there’s a change, I want to be right there.” 

Fury frowned. “What’s your doctor going to say?” 

That was a valid question, but one Steve hoped Fury wouldn’t ask her directly. “I’m cleared for sustained low-intensity physical activity and even some high-intensity. I can’t imagine sitting in a video van is really going to tax me.” 

The stare continued for a moment. “Take an extra medic along,” Fury said, “and make sure your team is comfortable with it.” 

Steve brought it up at the threat assessment the next morning, a meeting he’d moved up to deal with preparing for the Balko mission. “That’s fine,” Natasha said, “but understand that if you so much as look at the exit door to that video room too hard, Balko’s henchmen won’t be your biggest concern.” 

“Noted,” Steve said. “Anyone else?” 

“It would be good to have close advice,” Wanda said. Steve gave her a smile. 

They left it there and talked more about the tactics. After the meeting, Sam caught him at the edge of the kitchen, one hand on Steve’s bare forearm. “This is all cleared with your doctor, right? Both doctors?” 

“Garcia and Stephens?” 

“Garcia and the psychologist,” Sam said, quietly, and Steve blinked. “There’s a difference between being physically ready to come back and being in the right headspace for it.” 

Steve rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to be in the fight. I think I can handle it.” 

Sam held up both hands, like surrender. “OK.” 

And he didn’t understand what Sam had meant until they were actually on the jet the next day later. 

Steve’s team planned to intercept right at twilight. Most of the Strike Beta squad and the rest of the Avengers would subdue Balko’s strike team and Batroc while Rhodes and Vision secured Balko and the stolen weapon. They’d have local support after the fact, Hill promised, which meant pick-up vans and also police officers to canvas the area and to reassure the neighbors. Steve would be in the underground go-room that Hill and Carter had set up, which was accessible through the backyard of a facing townhouse. 

Although he flew out with the team, Steve didn’t dress for the fight. Natasha had been pretty adamant about that: his uniform had disappeared from his room the day before, and Steve had a feeling it wouldn’t show up from its “mandatory cleaning and repair” until he returned from this mission. 

It felt strange, though. It was a short flight down to the city, so everyone else had their Avengers gear on, high tech battle suits with tiny tweaks for which Steve had signed off and now felt some ownership. Wanda’s red cape was bulletproof and sound-blocking; she could shelter beneath it in a firefight or use it to cover her approach. Rhodes had a new laser sight mounted to his right arm that could be deployed from the ground as a weapon against incoming piloted planes at up to 35,000 feet (though he was never cleared to use it around civilian areas). Sam — well, Sam had the shield, ready for mounting into a special holding space between the wings and painted brown, black, and silver. 

He kept looking at the shield as they flew, and Steve knew what that was about: he wasn’t sure about taking it into the field. Steve wasn’t sure about it, either. Experience told him that confidence was one of the best weapons on a battlefield, and he worried that the new equipment was eating at that for Sam. So he took a seat next to him and said, “You gonna run with it today?” 

“Yeah,” Sam said, giving the shield a pat. “I’ll bring it back in one piece, don’t worry.” 

“Not the shield I spend time worrying about,” Steve said, sitting forward and looking around the cabin. Everyone else had the faraway look of pre-mission concentration; even Vision seemed to be scanning inward at the moment. The energy felt right, serious, certain, but Steve didn’t feel a part of it; he could only feel the tension of suspense in his stomach, a knot tied around knowing that nothing he could do now would really make a difference. 

Sam rested one hand on Steve’s back, low, warm, just for a moment, and Steve glanced back at him. Sam smiled, small and private and warm. “Glad you’re going with us on this one,” he said. 

“Thanks.” Steve sat back, and Sam’s hand fell away. When he leaned against the side of the plane, he said, “Is it always this cold up here?” 

“You’re usually in thirty pounds of uniform,” Sam said. “I’ve always wondered if the tights used to keep you warm.” 

Steve nodded. “That was their initial purpose. Toured a lot of chilly states during the war.” The truth was that he was cold because he was always cold, but he didn’t want to say it out loud. He should have brought a sweatshirt along instead of just a workout shirt, but he didn’t really want anyone to worry. 

“Well, you decide you need it, my jacket’s in my locker,” Sam said, shrugging. “Won’t need it till the flight home.” 

It took Steve a few minutes, and then he said, “All right,” quietly, and retrieved Sam’s worn-soft leather jacket. It wasn’t a perfect fit, but Sam had bought it to wear over other clothes, so Steve’s shoulders just barely stretched the edges, and it fell nicely against his knuckles. It smelled like Sam, Sam all dressed up, cologne and a little aftershave sweetness. Steve almost couldn’t keep it on from fear that he’d blush just standing in it. 

“Ten minutes out,” Natasha called, and Steve nodded and called everyone together, just behind where Natasha sat, expertly aiming for the Stark Tower landing strip. 

“Quick and clean," Steve said. “I’ll be in position for comms within 20, but take your time getting out there. We don’t want them to spook.” This was the last chance he’d have to talk to them without anyone else listening in: the strike team would meet them on the ground, and Fury and the rest of the SHIELD crew would be listening in once they put on their comm units. “You know what we might be heading in to.” 

“A trap,” Rhodes said. “Sure feels like it, doesn’t it?” 

“It doesn’t change our mission parameters, though,” Vision said, “or the urgency of the task.” 

“All true,” Sam said. “Just means we keep our guard up.” 

“You spot anything out of place, you let me know. The street has a substantial civilian population.” Everyone nodded. They understood the risks. “All right. Everything goes well, I’ll make you guys pancakes at Stark Tower tonight.” They all laughed, easy, confident, and then settled in for last minute equipment checks as Natasha landed. 

To make some stab at staying under the radar, they left the Tower in civilian vehicles. Vision and Wanda spun out in a black Porsche while Natasha, Rhodes, and Sam picked up a heavy-duty SUV in midnight blue. Steve caught a ride with them instead of with the strike team, which split up between two nondescript (for SHIELD) sedans. They drove a prescribed pattern to the drop-off point, where Steve ambled out of the car, picked up a coffee at a corner deli, made a call for a car, and was driven to a townhouse that shared a backyard with the townhouse across the street from Balko’s place. He walked up to the front door and said the right code word, then followed an armed agent dressed like any normal neighbor to the basement, where the go-room awaited. 

They didn’t usually locate their go-rooms quite this close to the action, but the empty space had proven irresistible, and it turned out Steve wasn’t the only one with concerns about the nearby school. So the cramped basement that would have usually held storage and a laundry set instead held twenty computers and eight techs who would monitor every move, every breath, every ounce of strength that his team had in virtually real time. The crew behind the computers was mostly familiar, though Steve knew them better by sight than by name, having strode through or past them numerous times at the facility. They all knew him, too, of course, and seemed a little intimidated by his presence. 

“Folks, I promise, I’m not here to observe your performance,” he said, taking a spinning chair at the end of the line in front of two dark screens. “I’m just watching the team.” 

It unfolded like a movie. Natasha’s car edged past about twenty minutes after Steve arrived, with Wanda in the driver’s seat, as directed. This was a sign to the rest of the team to take up their positions. She would park the car in front of a convenience store two blocks away and join the secondary strike team dealing with Batroc’s men. Sam would provide aerial support while Rhodes did internal sweeps and scans with Vision. Natasha would come in after them for what they called spot-cleaning and analysis. 

Of everyone on the team, Steve trusted Natasha’s field observations most. So when, after five minutes of their approaches going well, she said, “That’s weird,” Steve sat up straighter. 

“Repeat,” he said. 

“The guards have obsolete weapons,” she said. “Eastern bloc, laser-sighted, but we’ve had the frequency to jam their locking technology for the last five years at least.” 

“Can we do that now?” Steve asked, then turned to the techs around him. 

“On it,” the nearest one, Specialist Chen-Mallory, said. 

“Give us a minute,” Steve said, and Natasha said, dry, “Just one.” 

They had it done in less than that, but it didn’t feel like victory. It felt — unsettling. Too easy. Sam said exactly that, and Steve said, “Copy that,” but didn’t know what else to do. 

The rest of it went off pretty much as Steve had expected. Sam tagged three security guys from the air right as they approached the perimeter, and the others fell not long after discovering their guns had been disabled. Once inside, Rhodes reported light but uninspired resistance in the garage and first level, which was cleared within a minute. Batroc and his men rose from a game of cards in the kitchen to fight, but Rhodes had them cleared in short order, including Batroc, who he caught in mid-leap with one of Natasha’s favorite electrocution pulses. By the time she and Vision walked through, they only needed to tie up the bad guys and secure the electronics. 

“But now the bad news,” Rhodes said, and Steve’s monitor switched to the view from his camera. He revealed an old laundry chute that had been repurposed as a large dumbwaiter, probably carrying people directly to the sub-basement. In other words, Balko and his closest associates were now in the lair with the weapons cache, exactly where they didn’t want them to be. 

“Strike team, block all exits,” Steve said. “Hill, this might not be a bad time to get the locals up to speed in case we need evac.” 

“On it.” 

The team crept toward the basement, Sam in the lead with the shield. Wanda remained on the ground floor as a last line of defense. Inside the small room dug into and below the foundation of the existing home, they found discarded construction equipment, a pile of shattered crates, four empty chairs — and a tunnel. 

“Well, hell,” Steve said, and then the wall exploded next to his head.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mission continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Mild mentions of blood/violence, some discussion of suicidal thoughts/tendencies.

He woke up sometime after that, the taste of dust thick in his mouth. Rubble lay in heaps and mounds around him: slabs of concrete, tiny shards of broken computers, a woman’s shoe. Lights flickered on and off above him. He saw Connie Chen-Mallory, grayed out in dust, sitting up against the wall that had recently held her computer desk. “What,” he started, and then he coughed, thick, choking coughs. 

She crawled over and handed him his inhaler, wiping the dust away with her fingers. Steve took a puff, held it, exhaled, took another, and collapsed back onto a protruding triangle of cement that used to be the floor. His breathing was still ragged, but it would be better soon. He knew it. He just had to hang on for a moment. He tried to listen to the sounds beyond around the rush of his breathing, but there were too many noises: scattered gun shots, shouts in several languages, here and there a high-pitched scream, and the crumbling noise of concrete being broken. Fighting. As soon as he got his wind back, he needed to make contact with the team — but his earpiece lay on the ground, shattered and a little bloody, and it took him a moment to realize he could only hear from his left ear. 

“Are you OK?” Chen-Mallory asked. Steve picked up the words from her lips and nodded, then pointed to her. She nodded back, slowly. 

When he could take a normal breath without risking a cough, he knelt up to take a look around. Balko’s group had come through hard, and it sounded like maybe the explosion had caught them by surprise, too. Men shouted at each other, interrupted by random crashing noises and groans. It didn’t sound like they were systematically checking the room for survivors, at least, which would buy them some time. 

Chen-Mallory sat beside him, drawing up her knees. She was small, he realized, smaller than Natasha and without any of the commanding presence. He wanted to tell her they’d get out, but he couldn’t see well enough to know if the tunnel was passable. It probably wasn’t; he would’ve guarded it strenuously in his own operation, particularly if most of the Avengers were on the other side. That was something, though. Remembering the team was just a few yards away made the tension in Steve’s chest ease faster than the medication. 

“We just have to hang on for a bit,” he said, voice low. “We’re gonna get out of here just fine.” 

She nodded and wrapped her arms around her legs. “I just know computers,” she said. 

He put one hand on her shoulder. “I promise,” he said. “We’ll be fine.” Sam, Natasha, don’t make me a liar, he thought. 

The noises kept up: more gunfire, more confused yelling. Steve thought the confusion was a good sign, though he didn’t like that all of the noises were getting closer. Their little cut-away space would be an OK hiding place unless someone was standing directly above them, but it didn’t provide many opportunities to break free. They’d have to climb over the rubble, and Steve knew they’d be completely exposed to anyone looking that way. If only he could knock out the light overhead — maybe they’d have a shot. The minute he heard his team move in, he’d try it. 

“Can you move?” he asked Chen-Mallory, and it took her a moment, but she nodded. “OK,” he said, softly, and started to point out the best escape route. 

A burst of gunfire interrupted him, and then complete silence fell. 

“Captain America!” a voice cried, high-pitched, male: Balko. “You’re here, I know it. Come out.” 

Steve frowned. Next to him, Chen-Mallory was trembling. 

The man’s voice turned syrupy, taunting. “It’s not like you to hide from a fight, Captain.” 

They needed a few more minutes. Natasha was probably rigging up a bomb made from hangers and concrete dust as they spoke. He needed to give the team time. 

“This clearly isn’t working,” the man shouted, and then an explosion of gunfire sent concrete shards raining down above them. A woman — not Chen-Mallory — shrieked. “Come out right now, or I’ll shoot this lovely woman. What’s your name, dear?” 

“Agent Cooper,” she said, voice clear and nearly steady. 

“Agent Cooper. She’s lovely, and she’s going to die, unless I see Captain America in 5, 4, 3 —“ 

“I’m here,” Steve said, standing up, hands already raised. He squinted for a moment, staring over the pile of broken concrete at a man near the staircase to the basement. A greenish hood draped over his hair, but his face was clearly visible, twisted into a grin. One of the techs, Cooper, stood next to him. The man held her around the waist like one might a date, casual and close, while a black-suited henchman pressed an icer to her throat. At that range, she’d suffocate as her throat froze shut. They were twenty feet away, an easy shot with the shield — but Steve didn’t even have a gun. “Now let her go.” 

“Oh, gladly.” Balko gave Cooper a shove toward the stairs. Another henchman reached for her, but she spun and kicked him in the head, then raced up the stairs. He heard a scuffle above and the front door slamming, but no gunshots. Had she escaped? Was it that easy? Steve started recalculating his route. He saw two loose rocks that he could sling if he had a half-second’s chance. 

“Sooo, Captain America,” Balko said, the same side-slanting grin on his face. “Ready to surrender?” 

“I’m ready to make sure you let everyone else go,” Steve said, not looking at Chen-Mallory. “Are there others?” 

“Of course,” Balko said. 

“Let me see them.” 

“In good time,” Balko said. “Don’t worry, Captain. I’ll let you see everything.” 

Then he made a sharp gesture with one hand, and the henchman with the green gun fired. Steve tried to drop behind the concrete as a shield, but either he was too slow or the icer was too fast, because before he could drop into a crouch, he was unconscious again. 

He woke up with a headache, sitting up in a wooden chair. The techs from the go-room were scattered around him, sitting on the floor, hands and ankles tied while they hunched against a concrete wall. Cooper was there, across the room, a livid goose egg on her forehead; Chen-Mallory was near Steve’s feet, staring at the concrete floor. Another basement, Steve realized. He didn’t even remember being moved. 

As the fog around him continued to lift, he could hear someone yelling but couldn’t make the words out. Pulses of pain radiated from his ear. “I can’t really hear you,” Steve said, “but I’ll assume you’re shouting surrender.” “Oh, he’s awake, the impostor,” Balko said. Up close, he was younger than his pictures portrayed him, but also, somehow, scarier. He looked smarter. Shrewder. Like the kind of guy who would trick the entire Avengers team into attacking his house, just so he could — 

— Well, what? Capture Steve and a bunch of terrified computer techs? 

“What do you want?” 

“Captain America,” Balko said, voice so heavy with rage that it flattened out his accent. “Captain America, who left me with this useless stump —“ He held up his hand, and Steve realized it was false, as silver as the gun. His head swirled, and he had a moment where memories of Bucky intruded. He thought he might throw up. Instead, he raised his eyes to Balko’s and saw the hate there. “Do you know how useful a programmer is when his goddamned _hand_ is cut off? By righteous Captain America! I had to crawl through rubble, live on the streets like an animal — “ He stopped, took a deep breath, looked up at the ceiling. “I’m sorry. I go on. Sometimes. I get carried away when I think of everything he took from me.” 

“Looks like you’re doing all right by now,” Steve said, stalling. The team would need time to find them, and he needed this guy to get a little more reasonable, before he started taking this rage out on the hostages. 

“Oh, I am,” Balko said. “But enough about me. I want to talk about Captain America. Why did they send you instead? Did they send me you as, what, a tease? A consolation?” He spat, the warm glob landing on Steve’s shoulder and dripping down Sam’s coat. “Do I deserve to be patronized? The entire Avengers force can’t take me down. I think we’ve proven that.” 

And where was the team? They’d discovered the tunnel at the moment of the explosion. They must have rushed over, but — how could they have been too late? Unless Balko had also blown up his own house. 

Well, great, Steve thought, and tried not to show how worried that train of thought made him. 

For now, he needed to focus on getting himself and the frightened techs out of there, as quickly and safely as possible. The cables binding his wrists were plastic, zip ties, likely, and Steve knew he could burst them — but even trying would be pretty obvious. He needed to wait for his moment. “Look, if it’s Captain America you want, then you’ve got him. Let these guys go. We’ll call it a show of good faith.” 

“Good faith,” Balko said, and he shook his head. “Good faith, from the impostor. You think I don’t know?” His voice picked up with the heat of his temper. Against the concrete wall, two of the techs slid closer together, their faces crumpled in fear. “Captain America, the real Steve Rogers, his genetic code was leaked online when SHIELD blew up. Impossible to duplicate, maybe, but not very hard to test.” He tapped his own arm just above the elbow, and Steve glanced down and saw a dried smear of blood there on his own arm. “You’re no more Captain America than any of these people, even if someone designed you to look that way. And brainwashed these folks into thinking it. Or maybe you were just always in character? How charming.” 

“Either way,” Steve said, “your problem is with me, not them. So why don’t you —“ 

It always hurt to get punched in the face, but at least his new lack of strength hadn’t diminished his ability to take one and laugh about it. That, predictably, earned him another strike, which toppled his chair to the side. Steve landed with his face on the knee of the nearest tech — Connie Chen-Mallory, again. So she hadn’t escaped after all. It took him a moment to realize she’d stretched out just to catch him. 

“Thanks,” he told her, even as one of Balko’s men dragged him up by the shoulders. He left a smear of blood on her pants leg. Above him, he could tell Balko was ranting, but the words blurred. 

And then Balko struck her, open-handed, across the face, and she gasped but didn’t cry out. Steve wasn’t sure why: he knew it hurt, winced for her and because he felt terrible at being the cause of her trouble. 

“Leave her alone,” he said, and Balko laughed. 

“Even if you can pull those restraints free, you’re not getting out of here,” he said, and Steve stilled his hands on the chair back. Balko snapped something Steve couldn’t hear, and a moment later, a masked-and-gloved associate pressed a sleek silver-blue weapon into Balko’s hand. It glowed at the end, the smooth, open-sky-at-dawn glare Steve had met too many times in battle. A Chitauri weapon. Balko twirled the weapon around like a baton, soft clicks emanating from his false hand, the blue end spinning a circle in the air. “You may not be him, but I bet you can get a message to him.” 

“If you let these folks go, I’ll tell him anything you want,” Steve said. 

“You’ll tell him what I want because if you don’t, I’m going to kill this woman right now.” He gestured, lazily, at Connie Chen-Mallory, the weapon swinging with the arc of his hand. “This is a most powerful technology. Maybe you already know about it. Maybe they don’t deal you in on meetings. Doesn’t matter. It — have you ever seen one in operation? People just _vanish_ ,” he said, grinning gleefully. “Of course, I’ve done some upgrades. Wouldn’t want to stay micro when the demand is for macro, would we?” He grinned and gestured, again, at Chen-Mallory. “Would you like a live demonstration? Oh, maybe _live_ is the wrong word.” 

Steve watched Chen-Mallory’s face pale. She drew in her lips. He said, “What do you want me to tell him?” 

“Oh, I’d hardly trust you to get the nuance right,” he said. “I’ve got a better way.” 

* * *

They dropped him outside of Stark Tower just before rush hour. The sidewalks were already crammed. The two security guards knew him, which was fortunate since by the time they let him in, he could barely catch his breath for long enough to say his own name. They’d kept him gagged and bound for the entire ride to the Tower, and the gag had tickled his throat just enough to get him started coughing. He wondered what had been on it, whether the allergic reaction was on purpose or whether his body was just finally running out of adrenaline and sliding into complete meltdown. 

One guard, a good guy named Ricki, grabbed Steve by the arm and dragged him through the marble-on-marble public lobby and right over to the high speed elevator access. Maybe none of the workaday public had even noticed him, Steve thought, though it seemed more likely there’d be a picture of him on Twitter in the next ten seconds. 

“Friday’s already getting everything settled,” Ricki said, keying the right code, and he sent Steve up. The doors opened twenty seconds later on the team floor mezzanine, where they kept the medical suite and Stark’s main lab. Steve was dizzy from the fast elevator and, probably, from whatever had happened to his ear, and he basically tumbled out and hit the opposite wall to stay standing. Two startled medics darted immediately into view, followed by Sam, wearing a scuffed up undershirt and his cargo flight pants. 

“Jesus, Steve,” he said, and grabbed him by the nearest arm, which made Steve wince even as he grabbed Sam back. 

“M’ok,” Steve promised. “They got the techs, though. Hostages.” 

Sam nodded and steered Steve into the medical suite with one warm hand on the back of his neck. Steve took a seat on the bed, letting a medic slip a mask over his nose and mouth with no protest. The medicated steam had become almost familiar, and he imagined it spreading a cooling, calming film over his irritated lungs. As they settled down, he submitted to the rest of the exam. They shone lights into his eyes and frowned: some kind of concussion, Steve was sure. His bloody, useless ear had a torn eardrum, which meant he’d be low on hearing (and possibly high on pain) for the next few weeks. At least the cut on his head wouldn’t need stitches. 

“Any other injuries, sir?” one medic asked, and Steve unclenched his hands and held them out, watching Sam’s face. 

“What the hell?” 

“Adhesive X,” Steve said, grimly. Balko had cackled as he’d deployed the stuff, saying he’d picked it up from a “mutual friend.” Steve had no idea what that meant, but he had a feeling he’d need to find out pretty quickly. The glue was serious. He’d tried to pick one of the pages off already and succeeded in tearing a strip of skin from his palm. Balko had been right about the stuff’s effectiveness: the thinnest film had been applied to his written demand letter, and Steve’s hands had been smashed against it for only the briefest second, mid-struggle. It had bonded instantly. 

His demands, really, were simple: he wanted the real Captain America to face him in battle. If he didn’t surface within 24 hours, Balko would start killing the hostages, one at a time, and posting videos of their deaths to the world. He’d zapped a pile of rubble before Steve had left, just for effect. Of course, Steve had seen the weapons in operation before, but the techs had gasped and cried, and Steve had nearly broken his own shoulder trying to worm out of his bonds to attack Balko. That had gone predictably poorly. 

The Adhesive X on his hands, the medics reported, had bonded completely with his skin. While they called for a consult from the main headquarters, Steve asked Sam for an update on the rest of the team. “Natasha spotted the trip wire just in time. We were mostly clear before the bomb went off. No civilian casualties, at least.” 

Steve took off his mask and looked around. The medical room had supplies scattered around. A trashcan stood full of masks and gloves. “Who’s hurt? How bad?” 

Sam rubbed his face. “Wanda and two members of the strike team.” 

“How bad?” 

“One guy’s critical. The others are stable. All en route back to the facility.” Sam put one hand on his arm. “Could’ve been worse, man. OK? She’s gonna be fine. She got a shield up against the blast but the roof fell. Broken leg. They’re gonna fix it in the cradle.” 

“Did Vision go, too?” 

Sam, after a second, nodded, and Steve wasn’t sure what he thought of that. On one hand, it would be good for Wanda to have his support. She hadn’t yet been seriously wounded in the field, and Steve knew that was a frightening experience. On the other hand, they needed to strike back at Balko, and soon, and Vision’s help would’ve been substantial. 

“How’s everyone else?” 

“Ask them yourself,” Sam said. “When you’re cleared, we’ll head down to the kitchen.” Sam cleared his throat, looking down at a blank space on the exam table. “They’re gonna be pretty glad to see you in one piece.” 

Steve let that sink in for a moment. He remembered Natasha’s threat about getting into the action, realized they’d probably been gearing up for an extraction to save him. He knew he should feel grateful, honored, proud to work with warriors who’d climb up from one battlefield and volunteer to head back into a new one, but what he felt, mostly, was just raw embarrassment at being the cause. He’d been captured, had barely even fought back, hadn’t managed to save a single hostage except himself. 

“Seriously,” Sam said, hand again landing on Steve’s shoulder, “you’re OK?” 

“I’m fine,” Steve said, slowly, not meeting his eyes. “Just ready to get out of here.” 

Before he could leave, though, the techs tried every suggestion that the medical team at the facility had thrown their way for getting the paper and adhesive off of Steve’s hands. Water didn’t work, which was consistent with all of their intel on the substance. It did help dissolve the excess paper, though, so Steve counted that as a win. They theorized that it might be possible to freeze the adhesive off, but that would likely severely burn Steve’s hands. Even just pulling the material off wouldn’t work — it took too much skin, and his hands would be a bloody mess, in need of skin grafts, and “and ripe for infection,” the consulting doctor, not Garcia, said. 

So they’d gone with the plan of last resort: Steve would have to wait for the paper and glue to wear off on its own, a process that could take more than a week. They trimmed away everything extraneous and then smeared on a coat of thick lotion, so he could move his hands pretty easily despite being coated in super-villain Krazy Glue. 

The one big problem was the tracker that Balko had glued, like an afterthought, to the skin just inside Steve’s wrist. 

“I can’t cut that off,” the tech said. “Not where it’s positioned, not without too much blood loss.” 

“Yeah,” Steve said, staring at the black plastic square. It cut into his skin, a little, if he flexed his hand down. 

Sam’s hand squeezed his shoulder. “Let Stark work on it. Bet he can jam it until it wears off.” 

Steve sighed. “Stark’s here?” 

“Everyone’s here,” Sam said, and he kept a hand on Steve’s shoulder for most of the walk to the kitchen. “The whole gang.” 

That was more true than Steve had anticipated. Natasha, still in battle gear, sat at the long kitchen bar, drinking a tall glass of something over ice. Banner was next to her, studying a tablet and ignoring his own drink, while Stark stood behind the bar, filling a coffee cup from a silver urn. “My cup runneth over,” Stark said, lifting his mug. “Glad you’re back.” 

“Yeah, hey, Cap,” Rhodes said from the far end of the bar. He had a bandage across his forehead. 

“You all right?” Steve asked. 

Rhodes shrugged. “Little cut, that’s nothing.” 

“Nothing compared to the damage to my suit,” Stark said. 

“ _Your_ suit?” Rhodes said, and his tone was too defensive for this to be a joke. 

“What happened to the suit?” 

“EMP,” Natasha said. “Small but powerful.” She glanced over, and Steve saw a reddish bruise just at the edge of her jaw. “They definitely knew we were coming.” 

“Yeah.” Steve leaned against the bar, partly because he was a little dizzy. They’d mentioned it could be a side effect of the eardrum damage. As he took in the team’s injuries and weariness, Clint Barton wandered in from the living room, wearing jeans and a long-sleeve T-shirt, looking fresh from his farmhouse. Steve glanced at Sam. “The whole gang, huh?” 

“I made some calls,” Fury said, strolling down the stairs, and Steve was starting to wonder exactly how many entrances Stark’s dining space really had. 

“If Thor is here, I’m going to get worried,” Steve said, and Stark shook his head. 

“You know what the airfare is like, last minute from Asgard? Killer.” 

“Our team leader got captured by the enemy,” Fury said. “Feel grateful the entire Army isn’t here.” 

Barton settled at the end of the counter, just next to Rhodes. “Some fight, huh, Cap?” 

“Not much, actually,” Steve said, then realized they were all looking at his hands. The techs had bandaged them in loose gauze before they’d let him leave — mostly, Steve thought, to feel like they’d done something. “Well. Ran into some Adhesive X.” 

Natasha stared. “Cool name,” she said, and Barton laughed. 

Stark blinked hard and shook his head. “You have no idea how hard it is for me not to make sticky situation jokes right now.” 

Steve didn’t spare Stark a glance. Instead, he ran them through what he remembered, and he noticed that Stark got interested when he pointed out the tracker. “I don’t think it matters much now,” he said. “They know where I am. And they don’t think I’m the right guy, anyway.” 

Stark reached out, wiggling his fingers impatiently. “Lemme see. Come on.” Steve stretched out his arm, and Stark glanced down. “Huh. Friday? Anything or are we all passive here?” 

“It appears to be a run-of-the-mill RFID chip, sir.” 

Stark rolled his eyes. “Well, that’s easy. How do you feel about a tinfoil bracelet, there? I’m sure we can paint some stars and stripes on it.” 

“Whatever works,” Steve said. “I probably need to be able to leave the building at some point, particularly since he’s expecting Captain America to hit the scene tomorrow morning.” Balko had given Steve 24 hours to come up with the real Captain America, and Steve had thought, well, if only it was that simple. 

“There’s an or else written on there somewhere, huh?” Banner asked. 

“Yeah,” Steve said, picturing Chen-Mallory’s frightened face again. “Eight of ‘em, and I bet they’re all just waiting on us to rescue them. So let’s get a plan going.” 

The plan, it turned out, had already been settled. Fury had a pretty good idea of exactly where Balko’s five second-string hiding places were, and they were planning some simultaneous raids on them that evening. He spelled it out in broad outlines, then gestured that Steve should join him on the balcony to work out the details. Steve got that; the rest of the team still looked weary, not yet ready to get geared up and go. 

Calling Stark’s outdoor space a balcony was like calling Central Park a neighborhood playground. It had levels, an entire outdoor kitchen and bar, four separate seating areas and complicated planter arrangements that probably produced more flowers than Steve’s entire street as a kid. In the evening, the lights lit in anticipation as they walked to one end, away from the kitchen windows and the team. That should have been Steve’s sign that something he wouldn’t like was coming. 

“This op,” he said, standing next to a swirling planter with a spiral design of multicolor daisies. He put a hand out to steady himself; it was hard to tell anymore what was making him lightheaded. “Who’s coordinating?” 

“I am,” Fury said. “This isn’t an Avengers op. Not anymore.” 

“Not — they were there supporting us,” Steve said. “And you know he doesn’t care about those techs.” 

“I’m not sure I’m fully apprised of what Balko wants at all,” Fury said, “except your head on a platter.” 

“Exactly,” Steve said. He took a cautious step away from the planter. “Look, at least I should go. I’m the one he wants to see.” 

“Yeah,” Fury said, “and if you think I’m gonna sacrifice you to some crazy-ass villain with a super glue gun, your head got hit harder than you’re saying. You stay here.” 

Steve shook his head, which made a little bloom of pain unfold behind his eyes and nearly knocked him down. Around them, the wind fluttered past in a cold zip, the thin kind of air that only happened at heights like these. “He’s not going to just let them go.” 

“Well, good thing I wasn’t planning to just ask nicely,” Fury said, and it was the amusement in his tone that made Steve’s teeth clench. 

“Don’t underestimate him. This guy is clever.” 

“Yeah,” Fury said, glancing briefly at Steve’s hands, “seems real elegant.” 

“All of my instincts tell me you’re not going to get them back without me,” Steve said. “I’m the one he wants. We could — let’s get Hawkeye on point, and we’ll —“ 

“No,” Fury said, voice low and deep and final. “You’re out of this one. The only thing worse than losing our agents now would be losing them and losing you. Don’t compound this just because you like to run into fire.” Before Steve could even say anything, Fury shook his head, fierce and quick. “And please don’t make me put Romanoff on your ass. I can see it whirling in your head, thinking about freelancing this one. It’s a bad idea, Cap.” 

“Well, no one’s got any good ideas,” he said, walking to the edge of the balcony. A thin, strong glass fence lined the structure, and Steve braced his hands on the steel rail. It hurt, the paper crinkling and folding against his skin, the gauze catching against the metal. He made himself take a few slow breaths, waiting for the world to steady. Maybe it never would. 

“Even if you were at full fighting capacity,” Fury said, leaning next to him, “I’d be sitting you down on this one.” 

Steve laughed, the sound swallowed by the wind. “We wouldn’t be here if I was at full fighting capacity.” He shuddered: maybe the chill in the air. “Nick, I don’t want their blood on my hands.” 

“Then let me do my job. My teams are pretty good. You trained half of them. You should know.” 

Steve shook his head. “It won’t matter,” he said. “He wants attention. He — he said, it was like it was disrespectful, that I was there instead of, well, the real me.” He tried to smile around the last, but he couldn’t do it. “He wants a statement.” 

“Villains usually do,” Fury said. His voice was now so quiet that it barely rode over the sound of the wind, and Steve had to turn his head to hear him. “But listen to me. I’ve run all the scenarios. If I send you in there tomorrow, you won’t come back alive.” 

“So what?” Steve said, staring straight down. Fury’s surprised pause made Steve’s face warm, but he shrugged instead of taking it back. “There are worse ways to go.” 

Fury crossed his arms. He was looking up at the building, high, probably right at the point where Natasha had closed the portal. Steve remembered the feeling from that day, the sweat, the heat, the way the people on the street had stared at him — hope, fear, expectation. Now, just looking up made his stomach churn. 

“You gonna tell your team that?” he asked. 

“I don’t need them to go,” Steve said. “He just wants me.” 

“That’s a suicide mission.” 

“Not my first,” Steve said, and it sounded bad, raw. His throat was a little tight, and this time, it wasn’t his asthma. 

“So it’s come to this,” Fury said, still quiet, and Steve knew what was coming, suddenly. All of this waiting for Fury to realize what had happened to him, and it was finally getting through, right when Steve had found a way to be useful again. “Captain Rogers,” he said, and Steve stared out at the blue-gray night, letting the words float to him like a cloud, “you’re relieved.” 

Steve just nodded. It made as much sense as anything else had. He managed to look over, meet Fury’s eyes. “You’ll tell the team.” 

Fury looked so damn sad, but Steve couldn’t do anything about that. “I guess I will,” he said, “because they’re gonna be guarding your ass until the strike teams come back tomorrow. You leave this building, I’ll court martial you.” 

Steve laughed, humorless, dry, a cough. “Right,” he said. “Great.” He turned back to staring into the night, and Fury paused, dropped a hand on his shoulder for just half a second, and then strode away. Steve let his head fall, not sure what he’d done or what he should do now. It made sense, though. He couldn’t be a leader, not like this, not now. Those techs — he should have protected them, and instead, here he was, safe and sound and completely useless. 

The city below swirled in purple and gray, impossibly distant and big at his feet. A guy could still get lost in the crowds in New York. 

Any guy. 

He was peering over the railing, thinking about the people below, envying their anonymity, when he heard the door slide open behind him. Sam’s hand fell onto his shoulder a moment later. 

“Don’t jump,” he said, his tone light. “I left my wings in my room and I’m not a hundred percent certain I could get them on in time. You drop pretty fast.” 

Steve wanted to smile, but he sighed, instead. “Fury tell you?” 

“He said you might need a wingman,” Sam said, easy, and Steve thought, of course. 

He turned around, crossing his arms over his chest, ignoring the pain in his hands. “Fury’s not gonna budge on the op. No Avengers. SHIELD teams only. He says it’s not our op anymore.” 

Sam stepped close, leaning on the railing on his left, where Steve could hear him. “Yeah, I heard. And it’s bullshit,” Sam said. “Those techs were covering our asses. Just because they let you go doesn’t mean it’s any less our problem.” 

Steve shrugged. He didn’t know what else to say. Some of this was just plain ego, but he also felt, tactically, that the strike teams had a much lower chance of bringing all of the hostages back alive than the Avengers did. Even one or two Avengers could turn the tide. 

But that wasn’t his fight anymore, apparently. “I’ve been relieved,” he said, looking down. Sam still had his combat boots on. Sam would follow him into fire and hell, and Steve realized he couldn’t even ask him, anymore. Sam’s commitment was to the team, not Steve, and even if — even if he would, Fury was right. It was suicide. 

“What?” Steve just nodded, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Wait, can he even — look, all that hierarchy stuff aside, can he even do that?” Sam said, voice incredulous and angry. “You know the team —“ 

“It’s fine,” Steve said. “It — it makes sense.” He finally looked up, saw all the anger and bewilderment on Sam’s face. “You need someone who’s not a liability every time you hit the streets.” 

“Hey,” Sam said, grabbing his shoulder, “that could have happened to any of us. That — you think I wouldn’t get knocked on my ass by a concussion blast?” 

“Maybe, but you would’ve been faster getting back up.” Steve pulled out of Sam’s grip. “Look, you should — he’s probably going to want to meet with everyone, and —“ 

“Bullshit,” Sam said, staying in his face. “If you think I’m gonna spend one minute caring what Nick Fury says after this —“ 

“Sam,” Steve said, as sharply as he ever had, “you’re an Avenger. You’re a damn good one, too. And if you don’t get back in there, Fury’s gonna hand that team to Tony Stark.” 

Sam blinked, hard, and shook his head. “You and I, we’re not done having this talk,” Sam said. 

“Well, I’m on house arrest, too, so come back whenever," Steve said, and Sam frowned, then shook his head and walked back. 

Steve looked out at the night for a few more minutes. A hundred plans came to him, plans that would get him out of the Tower and off to wherever Balko’s hideout was, and every single plan required him to fight someone on his own team. He wasn’t sure what was harder: knowing that he would’ve considered doing it, only a few weeks ago, or knowing that every single one of them would defeat him easily now. 

He found one of the stone-and-tile bars, grabbed a couple bottles of beer, and took the furthest exit on the balcony into a hallway that would take him to his usual quarters. As he passed the elevator, he stopped and stared at the control panel. No lights came on when he tapped the button. Addressing the camera just above them, he said, “I don’t suppose you can take me to street level.” 

“Sir, I’m afraid you currently have access only to this floor and the apartments,” Friday’s voice said. That meant he was only getting out with Stark’s approval, or maybe if he tagged along with someone else. Barton, maybe, he thought, then realized he’d be with Natasha. Sam might let him leave, but no way would he get to go alone — and he wasn’t going to drag Sam into this kind of danger. He tried the stairway next, but the doors were electronically monitored and locked. Maybe, with the shield, he could’ve broken through, but it wasn’t budging with normal effort. 

He sat down there, anyway, his view of the elevators clear enough that if anyone — pizza delivery, Hydra henchmen, Pepper — came up, he’d probably be able to sprint on before the doors closed. Of course, he was fifty-five floors up and probably wouldn’t be able to convince the elevator to move, but it was better than sitting in his empty room. 

Natasha came and sat with him after about an hour. He hadn’t made much headway on the beers, though he’d stared at his bottle long enough he felt drunk. “I’m really not getting out of here," he said as she took his bottle. 

“Maybe if you get me drunk enough," she said, taking a swig. 

“There’s an idea,” he said, letting her hold the bottle. His head fell back against the wall, almost of its own accord. 

“Fury said it’s temporary,” she said, after a moment of long silence. 

“That would be nice,” Steve said. 

“He said you’re on mental health leave.” 

Steve snorted. 

“Rogers, seriously,” Natasha said, turning to face him, “what the fuck. You’ve got asthma, not — not terminal cancer or radiation poisoning. Everyone else on the team has faced —“ 

“You think I don’t know that?” Steve said, almost hissing. “You think I don’t get it, that everyone else is working harder, is under more stress, that I’m the only one who’s not hacking it?” He laughed, vicious, hard, and reached for the beer. “Thanks for the pep talk.” 

She wouldn’t hand it over. “What is going on?” He wiggled his fingers until she let him have it, but her eyes never left his face. “It’s not worth it to keep fighting?” 

“I’d be out there fighting Balko hand-to-hand right now if I could be,” he said. “Open the elevator, I’ll go now.” 

“You’re so fucking stupid,” she said, rolling her eyes, and then she rolled to her feet. “Enjoy your pity party.” 

Steve scoffed, looking away, but he couldn’t let her go. He needed one person to understand this. “It felt worth it,” he said, and Natasha stopped at the turn in the hall. Her hand paused on the corner, her face turned to parallel her shoulder. He addressed a place near her knee. “I — I woke up, and everything was gone, different, fine. I don’t fit in, but — I could help. I’ve had this _role_ , and I thought it was, I gave all of that stuff up, but it was for something. And now — “ He stopped. The elevator hummed, briefly, but the doors didn’t open. “It’s worse when I try to help than when I don’t.” 

Natasha stood in front of him. “Come on,” she said, holding out her hand. He waited for a moment, then took it and let her lead him back to his room. When they stopped at his door, she said, “Temporary leave,” and kissed his cheek. 

He couldn’t say anything, just nodded, twice, and backed into his own room. 

The windows had black-out curtains, just like the Avengers’ facility, but Steve pulled them up and gazed out into the milky night sky. New York below him felt foreign and welcoming. He rested his forehead against the tempered glass and closed his eyes, wondered where Bucky was and whether he felt a little bit like this sometimes. He wondered if he could even make it, living alone in New York after all of this time. Maybe, he thought, not opening his eyes, maybe he was going to get a chance to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Adhesive X is really a thing in the comics! The mutual friend talked about is actually Baron Zemo, who had a run-in with Adhesive X in the comics thanks to Cap. It's just such a weird weapon; I couldn't resist using it somehow. I mean: Super Villain Glue!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Steve gets more bad news, an old friend becomes a source of comfort. (That sounds like a fortune cookie line, doesn't it?)

He woke up the next morning early, light still greenish across the otherwise gray room. The medical staff had left him painkillers, and he took them, then laid back down, waiting for his earache to subside. At least he wasn’t dizzy at the moment. 

He lay there and thought about showering, about getting up and trying to hit the gym, about just heading out to the common area to read or watch the morning news. It all sounded exhausting. So he just stayed in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking and then wishing he could stop thinking for a while. That was what eventually pushed him up and out. 

Stark had a pool just past the regular weights gym. Unfortunately, the weights room had floor-to-ceiling glass windows looking out on the hallway, which meant Steve saw Sam at the same moment Sam saw him, and he held up a hand to tell Steve to wait. So Steve did, leaning against the wall, already cold in his (normal, non-speedo) swim trunks and thin T-shirt. 

“There’s a meeting upstairs,” Sam said from the doorway. 

“Right now?” 

“In an hour.” 

Steve nodded. “Am I invited?” 

“Fury asked for you specifically.” 

“Huh.” That couldn’t be good news, Steve thought, but a small part of him wanted to believe Fury had seen the error of his ways. 

Sam tilted his head toward the gym, and Steve followed him inside. Sam sat on the weights bench and drew a towel around his neck. He wore a tank top and his usual track pants, and his skin glistened with sweat. He looked wonderful, Steve thought, and leaned against the far wall to keep a generous buffer of space between them. 

Sam rubbed his face off with a towel. “You all right?” he asked. 

Steve shrugged. “Fine.” 

“Uh-huh. You look fine.” 

Steve flashed a big, fake grin, because why not. “It’s about time you noticed.” 

Sam laughed. “Dude, someday, you’re gonna flirt with me and I’m gonna take you up on it, and then where will you be?” One graphic, arousing image flashed across Steve’s mind, an answer to exactly that question, and Sam held up one hand. “To be clear, today isn’t that day.” 

“Let me know when it is,” Steve said, sliding him a glance, and Sam nodded, briefly, and then looked away. “I was gonna try a swim, but if there’s a meeting, I guess I’m gonna hit the shower. I’ll be up when I’m done — as long as I’m cleared to take the stairs again?” 

Sam shrugged. “Far as I’m concerned, you can do anything you want.” He smiled, just quickly. “Almost anything.” 

“You keep getting my hopes up, Wilson,” Steve said, but he didn’t push. This was all just for morale, he figured, Sam’s way of giving him something to think about that wasn’t the humiliation of his current situation. “Hey — any word on Wanda and the other guys?” 

“She’s healed,” Sam said. “The critical guy’s gonna make it, last I heard.” 

“Good.” 

He showered and found fresh clothes waiting for him in his closet, clothes that hadn’t been there the day before but fit perfectly: ironed khakis, a white T-shirt, a black button-down to go over it, and Sam’s leather jacket, cleaned and ready for wear. He put on the shirts and pants and threw the jacket over one arm, intending to return it at the breakfast meeting. He was glad they’d gotten the blood and spit out of it. 

Breakfast was laid out across the bar, and Steve wanted to be impressed, but he’d lived in Stark Tower for months before Sokovia happened. So he knew that morning’s spread of eggs and bagels, sausage links and crackling bacon, fruit, yogurt, juice, and coffee was the mid-level spread that the caterers broke out on busy weekdays, not the impressive, top-tier spread they could do for Sunday brunches or for VIPs. That also meant his oatmeal wasn’t available, so he settled on a bagel and cream cheese and a bowl of fresh fruit. 

Banner sat across from him, and he smiled with surprising warmth when Steve looked up. Natasha was behind the bar, mixing something in Stark’s blender, Rhodes waiting patiently with an empty cup. Sam took the seat by Steve’s when he walked in, having chosen just eggs and coffee, and to Steve’s surprise, Stark took the chair on his other side. 

He was dressed in a blue T-shirt and red pants that day with red-lensed sunglasses perched on his head. “Don’t sweat it,” Stark said, drinking his smoothie, one hand tapping on the table. “They’ve put me in mental health time out three or four times in the last year.” 

“That’s comforting,” Steve said, dryly, and Stark smirked. “How’d you get out of the penalty box?” 

“Well, bribery isn’t a bad way to go,” Stark said, then grinned. “Wait ‘em out. Oh, and I did some of the therapy they recommended. It’s not total bullshit. Well. Some of it is. Banner, for instance, is a complete quack.” 

“Not a therapist,” Banner said, never looking up from his newspaper. 

“Probably not kosher for him to be your therapist anyway, since you two are fucking,” Stark said. 

“Ethically dubious,” Steve agreed, and Stark grinned. Banner’s mouth twitched up briefly, too, as he turned a page. 

“We prefer the term ‘queer lifemates,' Tony,” Banner said, and Steve heard Sam laugh. 

Stark sat back in his seat. “I’ll apologize if you two make out right now.” 

Steve raised an eyebrow at Banner, and he laughed. “It’s almost worth it,” Banner said. “If I didn’t want to keep my balls intact so badly —“ 

“Was someone talking about me?” Natasha asked, appearing over Banner’s shoulder, and Steve grinned over at her. 

“Have you ever heard Stark apologize, Natasha?” 

She grinned. “Better. I’ve heard him beg,” she said, and before they could explore that further, Fury walked in. 

“Good morning,” he said, Barton trailing just behind him. He looked like he’d only just rolled out of bed, and Steve wondered if maybe dropping in to be an Avenger for the weekend felt like easy duty after spending most of his time with three small children. “Everyone here?” 

“Hail, hail,” Stark said, and Fury nodded. Steve turned so his good ear could catch Fury talking. 

“No use wasting time. Last night, our teams raided Balko’s five known safehouses in the area. We were working on intel from observation and from what was disclosed by his captured colleagues last night.” 

He tapped a small black remote control, and a picture of a townhouse — the fourth house, the one that Steve thought was the real thing — popped up as a holographic projection in the middle of the table. “We found our crew here.” 

“They’re safe?” 

“Half of them are,” Fury said, meeting Steve’s eye, briefly, before looking back at the townhouse picture on the screen. “Half of them are dead.” He listed their names, and Steve stared at the house. Connie Chen-Mallory was dead. He wondered how terrible her final moments had been. Steve’s stomach did another twist. He pushed his plate away. 

“What the hell happened?" 

“It’s not completely clear.” 

“Crossfire, perhaps?” Stark said, eyes narrow, and Steve looked up, wondering if he was guessing or had a theory. Either way, it was a good question. 

“Maybe,” Fury allowed. “We’ve got video, we’re analyzing it. We’ll do a full post-mission rundown.” 

“Did you at least get Balko?” Natasha asked. 

Fury shook his head, and only the sharpness of the motion and a small curl of his lip revealed that he might be feeling less than perfectly businesslike about this loss. “He’s in the wind. Most of the weapons, too.” 

“How _exactly_ does someone move a giant crate of weaponry without us noticing?” Rhodes asked. “I though the surveillance —“ 

“The team he captured _was_ the surveillance team,” Fury said. “So the last day or so has been a little patchwork.” 

“Well, that’s reassuring,” Steve said. “I’ll be sure to include that in the letters I have to write to their families.” He pushed his chair back from the table. “Why did you move if you didn’t have accurate intel? We already walked into one of his traps.” 

Fury raised en unimpressed eyebrow. “You think _I_ was too rash?” he said, but Steve kept staring. “We had information — good information, I thought — that Balko was about to leave town. He’s hosting an open house for others with similar weapons interests, and it’s pretty hard to do that in the city. We wanted to get out in front of that, and we wanted to save our agents.” 

Steve heard his voice rising, but he didn’t want to reign himself in. “You should have cut us in on this one.” 

“I’m through talking about that with you,” Fury said, voice firm and dangerous, and it splashed over Steve like ice water. _It’s not your team anymore_. “This is meant as notification. We need to be on high alert now. Something’s coming. I wish I could tell you more, but that’s all we know.” 

“We should get back to the facility,” Rhodes said, and Stark shook his head. 

“He was based in New York. Chances are he’s going to stay local. You’re better off staying here,” Stark argued. “There’s plenty of room and weapons, and tomorrow’s Chinese night.” 

Fury shook his head. “I agree with Colonel Rhodes. We need to plan and regroup, and two of your teammates are back at the facility anyway.” 

“Well, if anything happens, I guess Friday’s here,” Stark said, making clear how unlikely he thought that help would be. 

“And me,” Steve said, and that made both Natasha and Fury give him a sharp look. Steve shrugged, looking away from Fury. “Time off. Might as well spend it here.” 

Fury sighed, then said, “All right. I’ve asked Scott Lang to meet us back at the facility, too. Carter and Hill will do a briefing at 1300, and we can take off after that.” 

Everyone nodded, and Steve barely stopped himself from joining in. Instead, the group broke up, Barton and Natasha and Banner heading for the kitchen, Fury and Sam and Rhodes conferring at the front. Steve looked across the table. “Thanks, by the way,” he said to Stark, “for letting me stay.” 

Stark shrugged. “Always nice to have someone house-sitting,” he said. “I promised Pepper I’d be back in Malibu for the weekend. She misses me terribly. You know. I have certain charms.” 

“Right,” Steve said, but he smiled. “You miss her.” 

“Rumors, lies, and innuendo,” he said, picking up a sausage link from Banner’s abandoned plate. 

“Mind if I visit, too?” Sam said, appearing behind Steve’s shoulder, and Steve felt a moment of strange anticipation. 

“Babysitting?” Stark asked, and Steve glanced up to see what Sam’s reaction would be. 

It was eye-rolling. “Just this next weekend, I mean. My buddy’s got a bachelor party, and if I can avoid staying at his place, it would save my life.” 

Stark raised an eyebrow. “Long as it’s OK with my new building manager,” he said, tipping his head toward Steve. 

“Should I be worried about getting drunk dialed?” 

“You should be worried about getting invited,” Sam said, grinning, but before he could settle into the seat beside Steve, Barton called for him. “Duty calls,” he said, gripping Steve’s shoulder, and Steve nodded and watched him go. 

“Seriously, though,” Stark said, looking back at Sam and then at Steve, “if I’d known you were actually kind of gay, I would’ve…” 

Steve watched him pause, grasping for words, and he raised an eyebrow as he said, “Would’ve what, Tony? Cut out the queer jokes in the locker room? Not teased me about Banner?” 

Stark stared for a moment, then shook his head. “You’re right. I still would’ve been an asshole.” 

“Can’t fight nature,” Steve said, shrugging. 

“But do we need to have the sex ed talk? I’m pretty sure what they told you in the 40s wasn’t comprehensive.” 

“Yeah? Your dad seemed to do all right with the education we had,” Steve said, sipping his coffee. It was still warm. Did Stark even tech up his mugs? 

Stark grinned. “We all have our particular talents.” 

“So I’ve heard,” Steve said. “Also, I don’t know if you’ve read about it, but there’s a thing called the Internet these days. You can just ask it any questions you have, and it fills in the gaps.” 

Stark looked briefly alarmed, then impressed, then amused. “I really, really want to know what you’ve learned from this miracle device, the Internet, was it?, but I think, hm, yeah, better for us all if I extricate from this conversation while we’re still friendly and everyone’s unoffended. So, catch you later, Cap?” 

“Later,” Steve agreed. He stood up to get more coffee. The light chat with Stark had let him forget, for a few minutes, what the meeting had really been about. Standing up, though, he saw a picture of Balko’s greenish hood on Fury’s tablet, and it came back. Dead hostages. A bad raid. Balko still on the loose. Regret welled within him even when he knew it didn’t make sense, knew he probably couldn’t have done anything. But he could have. They’d known it was a trap going in. He should have fought harder while he was captive, should have required better scanning of the whole situation. This never should have happened on his watch. 

He poured himself a cup of coffee, then turned to find Natasha blocking his exit in the small kitchen. Her eyes were wide, a little wary, and Steve leaned back against the ovens to show he wasn’t ready for a fight. “You’re staying here.” 

Steve shrugged. “Well, it turns out my apartment in D.C. never actually belonged to me, so I don’t have a lot of choices.” 

“You should come back with us.” 

Steve pictured it for a moment: getting back on the Quinjet with the team, looking around at the weapons caches and uniform closets, sitting quietly at the edge while Fury talked strategy with Natasha and no one really met his eye. He pictured being back at the facility, tried to imagine what gym he’d use, what amenities would now be open to him and what might not. He tried to imagine sitting in his empty room while everyone else was off on a mission. “No, thanks,” he said. 

“What are you going to do? You can’t go after him.” 

“Who?” Steve sipped his coffee. “Balko? No,” he said, and he felt embarrassed again that it hadn’t occurred to him to go after Balko. He was certainly a villain in need of a take-down, but right now, that wasn’t Steve’s business. “He’s your problem.” 

“He could be yours, too,” Fury said, gliding in behind Natasha. “I don’t think you’re off his list of targets.” 

Steve shrugged. “Well, he knows where to find me,” he said, rubbing his wrist. 

“Whatever your role is here, you’re never gonna be completely off duty,” Fury said. “Aside from how much it would personally piss me off if you did something that dumb, if Balko captures you, that’s a symbolic victory that our side can’t really afford.” 

Before Steve could start to put together a reply to that, Natasha added, “And everyone else on this team would probably get themselves killed trying to get you back.” 

Low, he thought, then said it, and she shrugged. Her eyes drifted to the living room, where Sam and Rhodes were chatting. “You know I’m telling the truth.” 

“I think you’re both drastically overestimating my value to anyone right now,” Steve said, raising his coffee again. 

Natasha reached out, her fingers clamped around the tracker. “You have to be careful,” she said, voice low and serious, and Steve met her eyes. She was afraid, he realized: afraid for him. “You can’t just run off and —“ 

“I won’t,” he said, looking down at her hand until she flexed her fingers and released him. “I promise. I’m not going to do anything stupid.” 

“How would you even be able to recognize what stupid looks like?” she asked, smirking a bit, and Steve nodded. 

“I’m gonna figure that out and let you know.” 

“I’m gonna send Andrew Garner back here to help with that,” Fury said, and Steve sighed. 

“Is that an order?” 

“I don’t give you orders anymore,” Fury said, “but let’s call it a strong suggestion and a condition of coming back to work.” 

Just hearing that coming back to work was a possibility made Steve nod. He wanted that. He did. He’d talk to Garner. It couldn’t make things worse, at least. 

The team left right on schedule at 2, and Stark left pretty quickly after that, and then Steve was alone for the first time in, well, several years. Of course, in D.C., he’d lived by himself, but he’d had the work: going in to SHIELD nearly every day, hearing from Natasha or Rumlow or one of the other agents with some frequency. 

Now, the building around him hummed like a tangible reminder of the empty, endless time stretched out before him. No missions, no strategic readings, no messages to return. All of his friends — his teammates — had just flown away home, and Steve was left here, alone, in Stark’s bustling tower, with a robot to talk to. 

If I wasn’t crazy before, he thought, staring at the empty common room, this is going to do it. 

* * *

He got up the next morning and made himself do something. 

First, after he took his pain killers, showered and shaved and then stared at his papery hands for a few minutes, he tried the elevator. It opened with no problem, and Friday confirmed that he’d be able to ride down to ground level. So he did. In the lobby, sitting on one of the expensive leather half-couches, sat two suited bodyguards who sprang to their feet the moment Steve walked past. He glanced at them: tall, beefy guy, and a tall, rangy girl both with ponytails, suits, and shoes meant for running. 

“OK, seriously?” Steve said, turning to face them. 

The guy blushed, but the woman looked him in the eye. “Are you going somewhere?” Her tone was more curiosity than challenge, but Steve felt offended nonetheless. 

“Out,” he said, sharply, and she just nodded. 

“Sir, can I recommend we make one stop?” she said, when Steve paused on the sidewalk to get his bearings. 

“So you’re not even silent bodyguards?” 

She slipped on expensive sunglasses. Up close, he saw she had freckles; she reminded him a little of Pepper, only a tougher, grimmer version. “I believe you don’t have your wallet,” she said. “I was going to recommend stopping at the bank.” She tapped her ear, where a nearly invisible earpiece lay nestled. “Friday can access your accounts, if you’d like, and have some money waiting.” 

He had left his wallet back at the facility. Great. He didn’t usually take it along on missions: no one really expected him to buy anything along the way, and he so rarely needed ID anymore that he’d almost forgotten what it was like to carry cards around. That was all going to be a problem, though, if he was staying in the city. People might recognize him here, but that would work against him: Natasha still scowled about the time she’d run out after a suspected terrorist and forgotten to leave a tip at lunch. Twitter had exploded. 

So that was his first errand. They walked up to an ATM in the branch bank attached to Stark tower, and within a few seconds, it started spitting cash at him. Steve felt like there should have been an alarm or a stern conversation. He’d withdrawn 500 dollars, an obscene amount of money, but apparently it was the amount that Friday and Security Pepper had recommended if he didn’t want to return to the bank anytime soon. It would certainly buy him breakfast, so that was his next stop. 

After the bank, the two guards at least hung back a ways, which gave Steve more room even if he still felt completely tracked. Everything near Stark Tower was pretentious and silly, restaurants with broad glass windows and tiny booths, snooty waiters and skinny men guarding the door with clipboards. Most of the places weren’t even open in the mornings, so Steve didn’t bother checking them out. Instead, he decided to walk, partly to piss off the guards. He had money and he had time, two things he’d never really had at the same time in this city, so it seemed like time to enjoy it. He also had his inhaler, just in case, and in a nod to the doctor’s orders, a thin paper mask. It surprised him that no one even gave him a second look. 

His stroll took about an hour, wending through early morning traffic, staring at buildings still being reconstructed from the Chitauri invasion, watching the people walking by him. Nearly everyone walked by him, everyone going so fast, most of them staring at their phones as they navigated narrow sidewalks and construction scaffolding. Steve couldn’t help it: he was amazed, still, at the city, at the way it was so much bigger and brighter now, how many more colors he could see everywhere. More brown faces, too, and more women. The city was bigger and more visible than it had been, and it made him feel more hope than nostalgia, which seemed like a good thing. 

He found a diner trying hard to be a working-class joint and mostly succeeding at attracting tired tourists. That didn’t matter, since he found an empty seat in a two-person booth in the back (forcing the guards to take seats at the long counter, between Steve and the door) and a waitress who didn’t watch him too closely, other than filling his coffee a few times. There were couples at the tables near him, but none of them really looked over, and Steve was grateful. He didn’t want to be recognized, though he didn’t really expect he would be, and he didn’t want to answer any questions about his still-papered hands. They itched as he hid them under the table. 

He snagged a newspaper from an abandoned booth and looked for news about the team out of habit, pleased when he didn’t see any direct mentions. Of course, the senator in charge of the current oversight committee — the one who’d taken over after the Hydra purge — was in a headline as a potential presidential candidate. Steve wondered if he’d still need to testify in D.C. soon. Probably so. He’d do it, too, if the team needed him. 

The team. His team. He stared at the sports page, looking at scores for teams he couldn’t put his heart into, and thought about this leave. He’d gone AWOL during the war to look for Bucky, sure, but that had been — well, it had been right. It had been worth it. 

This was different. He was benched, used up, useless. Whatever Natasha said about his leave being temporary, Steve didn’t understand how it could be. Sure, maybe he could come back to the facility, find some role behind a desk, planning missions or doing some training. He thought, with some work, he could probably even get his feet under him, become a strong if not formidable fighter again, but that wasn’t going to matter while everyone’s expectations existed on a different plane. 

No, he wasn’t going back, not yet. He couldn’t be Captain America, not like this. 

But he had no idea what else he could do. 

* * *

When he got back to Stark Tower that afternoon, the guards split. Though Steve assured them he was in for the evening, he had a feeling they’d be replaced in a few hours by a new crew of babysitters. It made him angry and, he had to admit as he rode upward, pretty embarrassed to have them there. 

Upstairs, three surprises were waiting. One was a padded courier envelope containing his wallet, delivered while he was out. One was a small package from Stark, containing a silver cuff and instructions to put it over Balko’s tracker. Steve slipped it on, surprised by its weight. It didn’t feel bad; it just felt weird, heavy, unbalanced. He’d get used to it. 

The other surprise was Andrew Garner, wearing a pale gray suit and a deep purple shirt, sipping an espresso at Stark’s bar. 

“I didn’t know you were coming,” Steve said, then corrected himself, “today. I didn’t know you were coming this soon. Fury said he’d be talking to you.” 

”Yep,” Garner said. “He said you might need to chat.” 

Steve shrugged, walking behind the bar to grab a glass of water for himself. It took him a moment to wrap his hand around the glass; the glue had dried tough and sharp, slowing his ability to bend. “How much did he tell you?” 

“He said you’d been relieved of duty for reasons of mental health,” Garner said. Steve felt his face heat up, though he couldn’t have perfectly explained why. “My curiosity was piqued.” 

Steve nodded. “We had an unsuccessful mission,” he said, taking a sip of his water. “I don’t know what your clearance is.” 

Garner shrugged. “I think it’s whatever you need it to be,” he said. “The director’s cleared me above Level 9.” 

That was pretty high, higher than Steve would have guessed. His own clearance had only gone above that when he’d taken on leading the Avengers. “The team came to New York after a suspected hostile party, two days ago.” 

“The team including you?” 

His water glass was empty, and Steve turned to fill it again from the tap. There were special filters installed on the refrigerator to pipe tooth-chilling water directly into his cup, but Steve didn’t like the taste. The tap water was fine. He drank before he turned. “I was just in an advisory role,” he said. “I was with the computer techs, in an underground observation room. It should have been perfectly safe.” 

“Should have.” 

“Yeah.” He closed his eyes and could hear the boom of the exploding the wall, the involuntary screams from all around him as the room crumbled, the steel desks bending and breaking. He could smell — 

“Steve,” Garner said, voice deep and calm but a little loud, and Steve’s eyes snapped open. 

“Right,” he said. “It was a trap. We — the techs and I were captured. I was released, and they weren’t.” 

“I can imagine that was upsetting.” 

Steve shrugged, then nodded. “This guy, the, uh, the hostile, he — he has it out for me. Specifically.” 

“But he let you go?” 

He explained what had happened, absently rubbing at the cut on his arm that remained from where Balko had drawn his blood. It hadn’t healed yet. “Ironic, right? He had everything he wanted, but he let me go.” 

He thought he’d been keeping his voice pretty level, making the right amount of eye contact, keeping his posture open enough, but Garner’s eyes narrowed. “But not the hostages.” 

“No. Well,” Steve said, looking down at his empty glass. “There were eight total. Four made it. Four were killed in the raid.” 

“I’m sorry.” Garner actually sounded like it, too. “Do you want to talk about that?” 

“No,” Steve said, staring at the glass. Had they fed them? he wondered. Had they just been sitting in another basement, cold and hungry and afraid? 

“Tell me what happened with Fury,” Garner said. 

“I wanted to go after the hostages. Personally. He said that was a bad idea.” Garner nodded, and Steve could tell he needed to say more. “He thought going after them would be suicide.” 

“Oh,” Garner said, not sounding particularly surprised. “Is that true?” 

“Probably,” Steve said. “I don’t think this guy, Balko, wants to just have a nice chat once he finds me.” 

Garner sipped his espresso, hand curling around the tiny cup. “And you still wanted to go?” 

Stark’s apartment spread out behind Garner in a blur of steel and glass, stylish dark furniture and empty, shining spaces, and Steve closed his eyes against it. “I could have saved them.” 

“By fighting this guy, Balko?” 

“By trading myself,” Steve said. “I could’ve — he would’ve taken me in exchange.” 

“And killed you.” 

Steve opened his eyes. “You know, lots of guys have tried that.” 

“But you think he would have succeeded? Fury seems to.” 

“I guess,” Steve said, and he set his glass down, carefully, on the counter. “There’s not much point guessing, though, really. I’m here, they’re not. Price of leadership. I don’t suppose you have anything else we can talk about?” 

“Scheduling,” Garner said. “We could talk about when you want to see me again.” 

“Want might be a strong term,” Steve said, but after a moment, he nodded. “Next week?” 

“I’ll be back in town in a week,” Garner said. He tapped a white paper card on the counter. “Here’s my direct line, e-mail, everything. If you decide you do want to talk about it, between now and then, give me a call. I want to listen, all right? Nothing else: just someone to listen.” 

Steve nodded, again, his head moving slower this time. Maybe his walk that morning had been longer than he’d thought. He said good-bye to Garner and then walked back to his bedroom, the big, blank bed suddenly looking as warm and inviting as any he’d ever known. He sank onto it, toed off his shoes, and fell asleep still in Sam’s jacket. 

* * *

He spent the next two days about the same way. Once, after he’d had another lonely breakfast, he diverted to a small art gallery and spent forty-five minutes checking out a series of pencil-and-watercolor pieces from some up-and-comer. He couldn’t tell, but at the end, he thought Security Pepper looked vaguely impressed after Steve chatted with the gallery manager for a bit about technique. 

On the third day, while he was grabbing a snack after an exhausting mid-morning workout, Friday said Fury was calling. She patched him through to Fury on video call while Steve was standing in the kitchen, eating yogurt out of little glass containers. 

“I’m pulling your guards,” he said. 

Steve raised an eyebrow. “They hate art that much, huh?” 

Fury frowned. “That where you tried to lose them? Stark took a set to a strip club once and slipped out while they were, uh, scanning the room for hostiles. You people have no respect for personal security. But no. Balko’s moved out.” 

“Just like that?” 

“There’s a big meeting of a bunch of bad guys happening.” 

“Where?” 

“If I knew that, I’d be there, knocking down their door instead of talking to you. Main point is, I need your security agents to go wherever the action is.” 

Steve nodded, setting down his spoon. “And that’s not me. Well, can’t say I’ll miss them.” 

“Watch your back, Cap," Fury said, then signed off. 

Steve finished his yogurt and tried not to think about the fact that losing his familiar security guards would make him feel more lonely. He sat on the couch to think about his next move and, without meaning to, dozed off in front of the news. 

When he woke a few hours later, he had a headache and a dry mouth and a panicked, almost urgent need to get the hell out of this apartment. It made no sense, but Steve wanted to get away, as quickly as possible. A run, he thought, then palmed his inhaler and realized he wasn’t up for that, not yet. He was getting better, but not that much better, and his headache was just as likely from the concussion or the still-healing eardrum as it was from oversleeping. A walk, then. Another walk. He could do that. He changed shirts and slid Sam’s leather jacket over his T-shirt, slipped his cell phone and ID into the pocket, and left. 

The street traffic was urgent and getting worse, typical 2 p.m. city all around him. Steve set off in the same way he’d walked the day before. He didn’t know if the diner would still be open — he thought they might be a mornings-only place — but there had been a few other small places along the way that he could try. Maybe coffee and some kind of pastry, he thought, and then wanted to text Natasha. He stopped at a street corner to do just that, but it was hard to tap the screen with the paper still glued to his fingertips. Well. Maybe he’d call the next day. 

People still rushed by, glued to glowing screens, emerging from service cars and cabs, busy before they even stepped into the office. Steve was glad to have Sam’s jacket; the afternoon held a faint, promising chill, fall just around the corner, finally, and maybe rain creeping in. 

The first coffee shop he tried had a line winding in a Z, and Steve ducked out without waiting. The second had an equally long line, but people who wanted only coffee could skip it, so he did that, getting it black and hot to go and grabbing a plastic-wrapped muffin from a basket on the counter. A bearded kid abandoned a chair just after he paid, so he sat facing the window from habit, picking through the sugar-topped muffin and sipping his coffee. No one nearby even looked at him. 

Across the street, the convenience shop had dragged out a cardboard cutout of Iron Man with a hand-lettered sign taped over his abdomen, saying, “INTERNATIONAL CALL CARDS.” 

Steve abruptly wished Stark would have stuck around. 

When he stepped outside, the wind had picked up, and a few fat drops of rain splattered on Sam’s coat. Great. He shoved his hands into the pockets and ducked into the now whistling wind, turned back toward Stark’s big tower. A cabbie pulled up right beside him. 

“Hey, fella, get in here,” the guy yelled, Brooklyn accent thick. “I’ll give you a deal if you’re going uptown. C’mon, you’re gonna catch your death.” 

Steve laughed, shaking his head and feeling the rain already starting to course down his neck. Was everyone so worried about him? “All right, all right,” he said, and dashed over into the cab. 

Inside, it smelled like wet leather and coffee and pipe tobacco, a strange combination that felt welcoming, nonetheless. “You know Stark Tower?” 

“Yeah, I think I can find that,” the cabbie said, and Steve glanced up at the sound of his voice. The eyes he caught in the mirror held his gaze. One metal hand tapped on the steering wheel before the cab sailed out into traffic. “The fuck are you doing out in the rain, the shape you’re in?” 

“The shape I’m — Bucky?” Steve said, leaning forward, fast, both hands gripping the backs of the front seats. “What — what are you — are you following me?” 

He shrugged one shoulder. “I was looking for good fares,” he said, grinning, “and you always let go of a dollar too fast. Where are your minders, by the way?” 

“Gone,” Steve said, then wondered if he should have said it, then felt bad for wondering. It was dizzying. “Seriously, is this your car?” 

Steve looked around the cab. It had a driver’s ID clearly hanging from the window: a dark-skinned, skinny guy with short hair named Abdul-Aziz. Bucky had shorter hair, now, not regulation but not even to his chin, a thin black T-shirt and a firm, sideways smile. “Nah, don’t worry, I just paid him off,” Bucky said. “I know the guy from work, a little.” 

“From — “ Steve felt like he might never finish a sentence again. Work, like Hydra? “OK.” 

“You need a minute?” 

“I need a _month_ ,” Steve said, and he sat back, just for a second, then said, “Wait, you’re not really just gonna drop me off, are you?” 

“Nah,” Bucky said. “I paid for the hack for another coupla hours, so might as well get some use out of it. Your pals got a tracker on you?” 

Steve looked at his wrist and the heavy silver blocking bracelet. Really, it was more likely Fury was tracking him through his phone. Hard to know who was the bigger threat, here. “Maybe,” he said. 

Bucky opened a steel box on the front seat with a flick of one metal finger. “Drop your phone in. Wallet, too, if you’ve got credit cards.” 

“I don’t,” Steve said, but he dropped in his ID and his phone. “You kidnapping me or something?” 

“I’d have to get in line for that one, right?” He shook his head, merging easily between two speeding cars. “You been back to the old neighborhood recently?” 

Steve laughed, then coughed, then couldn’t really stop doing either for a minute. He hit the inhaler, twice, and realized Bucky had pulled the car over near an alley. “I thought so,” he said, after Steve could breathe again. 

“You what?” 

He shrugged. “Saw you a few weeks ago. Kind of put two and two together when you were carrying that thing around.” 

“Where?” 

“Barbecue place,” Bucky said. “Say, what’d you think of that Bond movie, anyway?” 

It didn’t make any sense, but nothing really did. Bucky was just there, his guy, same as ever, even though Steve could feel something shining at the edge of his conversation that hadn’t existed back home or even during the war, an anxious energy to the way he talked. Well, Steve probably sounded different, too. 

They spent an hour or so driving around, staring at places that used to be home and now were condos, trendy apartments, boutique shops. Steve had seen it all, of course, and he could tell Bucky had, too, but it felt final, it felt good and worse, to see it together, to see it all transformed in the company of someone who understood not just the gain but the loss. Bucky stopped after a while in a neighborhood that had just come up when they were kids and now looked about ready for a redo. He parked the cab in someone’s driveway, waving to a kid in the window before sliding the keys through the mail slot. 

“You hungry?” he asked, jogging out to the sidewalk. His familiarity with the area was breathtaking. 

“OK,” Steve said. 

Bucky said, “Well, c’mon,” and so Steve followed, like he had when they were kids, a few years ago, a lifetime ago. 

After a few silent blocks, Bucky pointed at a store on the corner. Steve followed him in, keeping his hands in his pockets and his head down. Bucky, though, walked in like he owned the place. He waved at two ladies sipping iced teas on the sidewalk, then called out, “Sally, I’m gonna need the special, two of ‘em, don’t you dare forget my pickles.” 

A big, balding guy in a white apron, standing behind a sprawling meat counter, said, “One time that happened, kid.” He started slicing meat from a big roast, and Bucky leaned against a small white cooler with a hand-lettered sign advertising PORK CHOPS - BONE IN. “Thought it was your night off, anyway.” 

“Yeah, well,” Bucky said, “my pal here said he hadn’t had a decent sandwich since before the war.” 

The guy laughed. “Guess we can do something about that. You a vet, too, son?” 

Steve cleared his throat. “Yeah,” he said. “Uh. Yeah.” 

“Been back long?” 

“Not that long. Just, uh, out recently,” he said, keeping his head down, studying the meat case. He could feel Bucky’s eyes on him. 

“You should check out the specials,” Bucky said, appearing at his side out of nowhere, and Steve followed his gesture to a little white board in the corner. Someone had taped a picture of Steve’s head, in his full Captain America cowl, to the corner of the board, and the specials were drawn into a cartoon speech bubble. Apparently, they had hero sandwiches on special with a side of freedom. 

“Is the freedom free?” he asked, voice low, and Bucky laughed. 

“Never has been, never will be,” he said, accepting two paper-wrapped sandwiches over the top of the case. “These are, though. Catch you tomorrow, Sally.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Keep your nose clean.” 

“My nose is fine,” Bucky yelled as they walked outside. 

Steve paused on the sidewalk to check the store’s sign. Sal’s Butcher it red in black block letters over a white sign above the red awning. “You work here.” 

Bucky shrugged. “Pays the bills.” 

“You have bills?” 

“Everybody has bills,” he said. “You up for a walk or your lungs gonna collapse?” 

“Let’s find out,” Steve said. 

He followed him three blocks up to a little neighborhood park, the kind where nannies now took their charges to play on brightly painted equipment standing in soft bark chips. It was empty at the moment except for two characters bent over a shopping cart at the edge of the lot, filling up water bottles at the fountain. Bucky led him to a bench in the center that had a full view of the park, all entrances and potential hiding spots. “You wanna tell me what’s going on?” 

Steve shrugged. “I need to ask you the same thing. I been looking for you for, it’s been more than a year, Buck.” 

“Mm.” Bucky tore into the sandwich, then shrugged. “Took me about a year to get everything back. I mean, everything. Social security number, memories of my ninth birthday, the way those fucking tents smelled in Denmark, those ugly socks your mom used to knit.” 

“And the Hydra stuff?” 

He shrugged. “Never did forget that,” he said. “But — it kind of, it’s less. It’s not like memories, it’s more like a television show. I can remember things if I want to. Most of the time, I don’t want to.” He rolled his neck around. “I mean, there were some things I had to check out for myself.” 

“Yeah, I think I caught clean up duty on some of your checkouts.” 

“Thanks,” Bucky said, sincere but quick, like Steve had remembered to pass the salt. “Hey, how’s the sandwich?” 

“Amazing.” 

“Right, I know. They do their own corned beef. It’s great. You gotta try the hard salami next.” 

Steve nodded, chewing, waiting. 

“So, I got it together a little. Little bit at a time. New York isn’t such a bad place to do that, you know? Lots of people gettin’ it together here. I had money enough, so I just, I picked a place, and I looked around, figured out what guys our age did. I tried on a couple of things. This job, with Sal, it’s been two months, but it’s worked out OK. He doesn’t need help all the time, but I don’t need a steady thing.” He shrugged. “He thinks I’m a filmmaker or some bullshit.” 

Steve wanted to know the stories between those lines, but he couldn’t ask, not yet. Bucky was focused on a swingset ten yards away, hard, waiting for someone to appear out of the shadows, and Steve understood this was enough. Right now, sitting next to Bucky, even if everything he’d just said was a lie, it was enough to have this. 

Bucky shoved him with an elbow, and Steve nearly choked on his sandwich. “Fess up.” 

Steve sighed. “So I got hit in a Hydra raid.” 

“The antiserum, right?” 

“You knew about that?” 

“Who do you think they developed it for, exactly?” His smile was a little lopsided. 

“Well, they stole it from us. From SHIELD,” Steve said. “It was meant for the Hulk.” 

“That’s — I’m almost honored,” Bucky said. “Say, you know him, right? Sal and I got a bet. How come his pants always stay on?” 

“Good tailor,” Steve said, and Bucky laughed. 

“So, what, you’re an asthmatic weakling again?” he asked, after a moment, elbow nudging Steve’s ribs again. 

“Kind of,” Steve said. He looked out at the row houses around them, wondered who lived there now. Families? Grandparents? Any guys like him, just trying to find a place to fit? “I’m out of the Avengers.” 

“Shit. That’s cold.” 

“Not — I just, I needed a break,” Steve said. 

“Right. That sounds like you,” Bucky said. The trees around them rustled, and he sighed and wadded up his sandwich paper. Steve had finished half of his, and he wrapped the rest to take with him. “Let’s go.” 

“Go do what?” 

He shrugged. “Get a real cab and get you back uptown.” 

Steve reached out without even thinking about it, his finger jamming against the hard metal that used to be Bucky’s elbow. “I don’t — where — what about you? Do you, you live around here, or…?” 

Bucky raised an eyebrow, teasing but also, underneath, curious. “Uh-huh. Around here,” he said. “And tomorrow, if nobody comes crashing through my door in the middle of the night tonight to get me for kidnapping Captain America, maybe I’ll make you some meatballs.” His voice dropped, a little, and he looked sideways. “I’m not runnin’ off, Steve. All right?” 

“All right,” he said, and nodded, drawing his hand back and jamming it into the pocket of Sam’s coat. He just wanted to believe it so badly. “All right.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> :)

The next night, Steve left his cell phone on the dresser and walked outside right at 6:30, heading uptown, same path as before. A quarter-sized piece of the glued-on paper had torn off that morning when a weight slipped in his hand, so his right palm was heavily bandaged and balled in his pocket. As he got close to the rendezvous point, he took it out, worried Bucky might think he had a weapon — no, that the Winter Soldier, wherever he lurked back in his friend’s brain, might see him as a threat. 

And he wasn’t. He hadn’t even been able to make himself call Bucky in the night before, even though he knew he should have. SHIELD was looking for Bucky, too; heck, Fury had given him the assignment. Steve didn’t work for Fury at the moment, though, and the idea of some strike team whisking in and dragging Bucky off for, at best, days of interrogation made Steve feel physically ill. When he’d pictured finding him in the past, he’d pictured using his strength, his standing, to shield Bucky from the worst of SHIELD’s ideas. Now, he didn’t even really have that to offer, and it had kept him up for most of the night, worrying, picturing Bucky’s words: a team crashing through his door, laser sights, casualties. 

Thirteen minutes into his walk, Bucky pulled up beside him in a gray sedan. “You goin’ my way, sailor?” he said, voice lispy and teasing, and Steve rolled his eyes before he climbed in to the front seat. The car this time smelled overly sweet, heavy perfume and an air freshener. 

“Geez, Bucky, what’d you do, steal someone’s grandma’s car?” 

“Limited options in my neighborhood,” he said, shrugging, and Steve decided not to ask anything more. “Don’t suppose you have a car of your own these days.” 

“I have a bike,” Steve said, then tipped his head to the side. “Had,” he said, then shrugged. “I mean, I guess it’s still mine. It’s, uh.” He couldn’t just say, _It’s in the upstate secret facility that you’re not supposed to know about_ to Bucky even if he felt so damn sure this was really, actually Bucky. “It’s not here.” 

Bucky shrugged. “Fine with me. I can go a long time without riding bitch for you, Rogers.” 

“Were you always this mouthy?” Steve asked, grinning, and Bucky cursed around a laugh. 

“I guess all that self-sacrificing and alien fighting, you probably hit your head kinda hard a few times,” Bucky said. “It’s all right, we’re all a little brain damaged in here.” 

They spent the evening in Bucky’s little apartment, a third story walk-up down a rabbit warren of streets and side streets and alleys. At the last minute, Steve thought they were going to have to climb the fire escape to get inside, but Bucky crooned to a girl over the buzzer box to let him in. She grinned at them from the stairs as they drew past, her hand casually passing over Bucky’s ribs, and he said, “Sonia, I love ya, thanks, babe,” and kissed her cheek. At the top of the stairs, he drew a key from under the mat in front of 3-C, and they were there. Just a studio in an old brick house in Crown Heights. 

“This is Sonia’s sister’s place. I’m subletting, technically,” he said, rolling his head around. “But she’s never coming back. Boyfriend in Queens.” Bucky dropped the key onto a little wooden entry table, then took a few steps and sunk down into a cushy navy blue couch. “She left me this beauty. Got no idea how they got it up here.” 

“It is… substantial,” Steve said, taking a seat at the other end. Two more decently sized people could probably fit between them. The apartment didn’t have much, but it wasn’t exactly sparse. Three piles of paperback books stood under the windowsill, a coffee cup resting on the ledge above them. A flat-screen television hung on the wall across from the couch, well above a white-painted radiator, and blue-green rugs marked a path across the scuffed hardwood floors. “Does it fold out?” Steve asked. 

Bucky nodded. “I don’t usually bother with it. Big old couch, better’n any bed I ever had,” he said patting the thick arm. “Kitchen’s over there. You hungry? Still got the super appetite or did that go, too? Wait, I already know this. It’s a crime not finishing Sally’s special sandwich, by the way. I’d be obligated to beat you up if I hadn’t, you know, already done that.” 

“Glad to have that one on credit, then,” Steve said, and Bucky grinned. 

“So, meatballs?” 

It turned out Bucky’s special meatballs came in a black plastic tray from some grocery store. “You work in a butcher’s shop,” Steve said, watching Bucky slide the container into the microwave. 

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s how I know these are good.” 

They ate them with sauce out of a jar on paper plates. Bucky poured grated cheese from a can over his and mopped up the sauce with crusty white bread, and Steve watched him and smiled. 

“The food nowadays, yeah?” 

“So good,” Bucky agreed. “And so much of it. It’s everywhere. Crazy stuff. You tried curry?” 

“A little," Steve said, and Bucky nodded enthusiastically. 

“Sonia, like, her family’s from the Caribbean. She makes these beans, God. Amazing. They have guava or something. You know what a guava is?” Steve shrugged. “Yeah, me either. Don’t care, really. They’re good.” 

“Sounds like,” Steve said. He speared a meatball on a plastic fork, ate it, then said, “So you and Sonia? Is that a thing?” 

Bucky shrugged. “Sometimes. Not much lately. She works nights at some telephone company, I think they call people for money? I used to run into her when I couldn’t sleep, we kept each other company.” 

“Uh-huh.” Same old Bucky, Steve thought, then he said it, and Bucky laughed. 

“A little bit, yeah,” he said, and his smile when he said it was clear and shy and true. 

It took Steve a few more visits to really piece together Bucky’s story. After the Triskelion, he’d started looking for answers, starting with information about himself. That had led him to Marina Colfax, a history professor in Michigan who’d written the definitive biography about the Howling Commandos. Steve had met her a few times but hadn’t yet agreed to the interviews she wanted. The familiar way she’d written about his friends — his dead, heroic friends — made him uncomfortable. 

Bucky, though, had taken to her immediately, probably because Colfax had believed his story. “So, uh, her partner, he’s a psychologist,” Bucky said, and shrugged. “I stayed there for a month or so. Read the book, looked at her notes and some stuff she had. Studied up. It brought up a lot of old memories. I worked with Joel to suppress the rest.” 

“And that worked?” 

Bucky shrugged, a faint chink-chink echoing up his arm, and looked away. “Most of the time.” 

He’d established a new identity in New York, completely divorced from all of his old records, and then tried to remain as low-profile and out of the system as possible, all the while conducting brief, spectacular raids into what remained of Hydra. “Wish I could say it was for critical intel or a counter-strike,” Bucky said, “but really, I just needed more info on me. To figure out what I was dealing with. Also, schematics.” He tapped his metal arm. “Still working on a full set of those, but I’ve got most of it fixed.” 

Steve wanted to mention that Stark could probably take care of it, but Bucky still got a little jumpy at the mention of the other Avengers. It was one of the reasons Steve hadn’t talked about Sam yet at any length. 

The other was that Steve didn’t want to talk about his life. He didn’t want to think about the 87 other things he should have been doing. Finding Bucky — or being found by Bucky — it felt like an endpoint, an accomplishment. For the first time in two years, or maybe 70 years, he felt like he could stop, just stop, for a while, like he wanted to just live in this week of evenings with his old friend forever. If he could get through it without Bucky seeing how messed up Steve had become, all the better. 

One cool evening, as they were walking back to the subway stop, Bucky said, “Did you start paying attention to clothes or did you finally get a girlfriend?” 

“What?” Around them, the city was fading into that purplish pre-sunset twilight, the sidewalk crowds thinning, the trees and buildings starting to merge into black. The air felt thick with smog and ozone and maybe, at the back of the throat, a hint of possible rain. Steve had hit his inhaler twice since leaving Bucky’s building, but he still wanted the walk. It had started to edge into fall. 

“That jacket. It’s nice.” 

“Oh,” Steve said, hands jammed in Sam’s pockets, and then he blushed, and he knew no one else would even notice, but this was Bucky. 

Bucky grinned, white flash of teeth under a purplish streetlight. “A girl, huh?” 

“No,” Steve said, shaking his head, pausing on the corner. He looked down at the cracked sidewalk, tracing the pattern of breaks with his eyes. A horn blared in the distance, but neither one of them moved. “I, uh.” 

“Spit it out,” Bucky said, clicking his tongue in impatience. “Look, it’s 2015, Rogers, and you’re reasonably attractive these days, particularly since you’re not playing in my shadow anymore. And I been around, some. I know how it is now.” 

Steve looked up, met Bucky’s dark eyes for the few seconds Bucky could hold the contact. “You do?” 

“Sure,” he said, shrugging. “You know I never had a problem with casual flings. I’m surprised you’ve evolved that much, but I’m a little proud, too.” He grinned and clapped Steve on the shoulder, resuming their walk, Steve drawn along by gravity. “You still owe me some details, though, and I want to know how she talked you into the coat.” 

He wanted to lie, but he couldn’t, and not just because this was Bucky and he’d know. Steve couldn’t lie because Bucky, this new, pretty OK Bucky with the past he wanted to forget, deserved the truth all of the time and had actually told Steve more than he’d guessed he’d get back. “Buck, it’s — the coat, it’s not mine. It’s Sam’s coat.” 

“Sam.” Bucky glanced over, his walk slowing. “The Falcon guy. Did I shoot him?” 

“Shot at him,” Steve said, shrugging. “But that’s a long list.” 

“Yuh-huh. Sam. He loaned you his coat?” 

“Sort of.” Steve sighed, wishing he could run his hand over his face, but the paper had started to tear off at the slightest provocation, now, and he had to keep his hands still. “He’s, we’re not, there’s nothing really going on.” 

“Nothing like I had nothing going on with Sandra Perino, or nothing like you and Angelina Perkins?” 

Steve rolled his eyes. Two men in business suits and sneakers streamed past. He remembered Sam holding his hand in the hospital, Sam touching his back on the plane, the fierce worry in his eyes at Stark Tower. “I guess somewhere between there.” 

“First base?” 

“Not — not really,” Steve said, face hot. 

Bucky hummed. “But you’re in the ballpark.” 

“Yeah.” Steve looked over. “That a problem?” 

Bucky shrugged one shoulder. “Guess not. Unless he’s an asshole, then I got some problems.” He clapped a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “You still like dames, though, or you leavin’ ‘em all for me?” 

“I’d never do that,” Steve said, grinning. “It’s not fair to the women.” 

That was all they said about it. 

* * *

His days developed a pattern after that. He woke up at a reasonable hour, something between 7 and 9, depending on how late he’d been at B

ucky’s place the night before. He hit the gym, working through Lourdes’s regimens, and had Friday send her the data on how he did. They video conferenced whenever she had time, and he appreciated that she hadn’t moved him down in priority even though he was no longer an active Avenger. 

After his workout, he showered and shaved. He took exactly two days off from shaving, just to try out the beard, and Bucky nearly broke something laughing. “I mean, maybe your fella likes lumberjacks,” Bucky said, and Steve shaved it all clean the next morning. 

He ate breakfast from whatever the Stark Tower chefs had delivered, giving Lourdes’s suggestions some credit here, too, since any meal he ate with Bucky would be less than truly healthful. 

Then, usually, for an hour or two, he lied. Some days, it was just casual: he’d spend his time texting or e-mailing with Natasha or Sam and following up on questions from Hill, Sharon, or even Fury. If it was just procedure or business, he had no problems. It was the line at the bottom of even work-related correspondence asking, innocently, _How are you?_ that made Steve slip into falsehoods. How was he? His back-from-the-dead best friend seemed to have modern life figured out better than Steve did. That was how he was. 

Some days, he told lies to Andrew Garner. Steve tried not to lie to his therapist, but he couldn’t tell him about Bucky. Garner worked for SHIELD and, moreover, had some personal connection to the director that made Steve wonder how much of what they talked about was really confidential. So he talked around Bucky, instead, saying he’d connected with another vet and they’d been spending some time together. Garner seemed pleased that he was out in the world, “meeting new people, not dwelling in the past — that’s all excellent progress, Steve.” 

Steve couldn’t meet his eyes, but he didn’t know what else to do. 

On the whole, he wasn’t sure whether he was, actually, making progress, whatever that was supposed to mean. In the afternoons after he’d finished with therapy or e-mail, he’d sit in the semi-dark of the communal living room, where they’d first met Ultron not even that long ago, and he’d stretch out on Stark’s expensive and uncomfortable couch and try to read or play one of the stupid cell phone games everyone else loved, and his mind would wander. It never really wandered anywhere nice, though. He thought of Chen-Mallory too often. Really, he hadn’t even known the woman, except maybe to say hello in the hallways or, once, to cheer her on during a karaoke night at the bar. She’d sung something catchy, a song Steve had been whistling the next day that made Rhodes crack up and buy him the collected works of Journey box set for the CD player he didn’t own. Chen-Mallory, doing everything she could to save him the pain of falling, and he’d just left her — 

So. His afternoons weren’t so great. But eventually, Bucky would call, or text, or Steve would get so tired of just sitting that he’d hit the streets and already be on his way to Bucky’s place by the time the call came. And then they’d spend the evening together, and Steve would just soak it in. He basked in Bucky’s company like the sunshine of the first warm day of spring, something he knew, just knew, was going to fade again but something he also needed badly to believe in for the moment. 

Bucky really did seem OK. Sure, Steve could spot the places where he paused just a few seconds too long, and he’d learned that asking anything from the middle section of Bucky’s life so far — that stolen, frozen middle — generally brought a flat, robotic tone to Bucky’s voice that chilled the very air. But Bucky was holding down his job, seeing his sometimes girl, keeping his fridge full, and dutifully, for a couple of hours a day, using a computer in the corner of a branch library to contact a web of online hackers who were slowly disintegrating the remaining Hydra databases. 

They’d watch a movie most nights, and then Steve would go back to Stark Tower, and he’d try again to read or watch TV. The loneliness was just about the worst at night, right after he’d left Bucky, when it was too late to call anyone else and the tower hummed smooth and empty and efficient around him. It reminded him a bit of being back in D.C., before the Triskelion and the helicarriers, going back to his blank apartment and his blank, unlived life. Now, though, it was worse, because he had friends and even a place that had felt like home, but he couldn’t be there, with them, not now. Not yet. Maybe not ever. 

When he did finally sleep, it was usually because his body simply couldn’t take any more, no matter what his brain had to say about it. Then he got up and did it all again. 

After a week or so, Steve walked in after a short evening with Bucky — he had to work early the next morning because a new shipment was coming in — and found Sam waiting in the living room, watching a nature documentary. 

“Hi,” Steve said, feeling himself blush, hands in the pocket of Sam’s coat, and Sam looked up, scowling. 

“Where in the world have you been?” he asked. “I tried calling your cell and it rang somewhere in your bedroom.” 

“I — oh, yeah,” Steve said. He and Bucky had both picked up a collection of what Bucky called burner phones, and they used them to text throughout the day. It wasn’t much of a security precaution, really; Steve wasn’t too hard to follow, and Bucky didn’t seem to be bothered about that, but when he’d mentioned that he didn’t want Tony Stark reading their texts, Steve had signed on pretty quickly. Besides, it felt good to leave his phone behind, like a total split from his old SHIELD duties. 

But now, looking at Sam’s worried scowl, he could see why that might have been a bad idea. “I didn’t mean to worry anyone,” he said, stepping back into the entryway and hanging up the jacket. “I got a new phone, is all. Seemed reasonable that Balko might be tracking that one, since I had it on me during the raid.” 

“Stark could’ve set you up.” 

“Yeah, well,” Steve said, and shrugged, leaning against the wall. “I think I’ve got enough of Stark’s help right now. He can track me the rest of the day.” 

Sam gave him an up-and-down look. “Do you want to tell me where you’ve been?” he said, and Steve got it, it was actually a question. 

He shrugged. “You had dinner, yet?” 

“I got this party to go to,” Sam said, and Steve remembered, suddenly, that was why Sam was in town: the bachelor party. It wasn’t to check up on him. 

“Right,” he said, and peeled off the wall. He walked to the kitchen and filled a glass with water. “That sounds fun.” 

“Yeah? You want to go?” 

Steve looked back at him. “Uh-huh. Captain America crashes a bachelor party. Sounds like a great time.” 

“It could be,” Sam said. “And you don’t have to go as Captain America. You could just be, you know, you. No need for the shield at this one.” 

Steve drained his water and said, “Just me. Tagging along with you.” 

“Sure. These guys are vets. They don’t mind.” 

Steve thought about it for a few second, then shook his head. “Nah. Go, have a good time. We can talk after.” 

“After? Have you been to a bachelor party? I’ll be lucky if I can crawl home when this is done,” Sam said, grinning. “Don’t think I’ll be up to much talking tonight.” 

Steve nodded. “OK, so, tomorrow. Breakfast. Late,” he added, when Sam looked skeptical. “Unless you have to get back.” 

“No, I’m here all weekend,” Sam said. He braced his hands on the bar and said, “You sure, you’re OK?” 

“Yeah,” Steve said, smiling, and it wasn’t so hard. “I’m just fine.” 

Sam came back around 1 that morning. Steve knew this only because he’d dozed off in front of some sports documentary on television, and he woke up to the sound of Sam conversing quietly with Friday in the entryway. 

“You didn’t have to wait up," Sam said, taking a seat beside him. 

“I didn’t,” Steve said, rubbing his face. He’d been staying up pretty late, recently, getting home around this time himself. Bucky kept late hours; he always had been a night owl. “How was your thing? I notice you’re walking on your own two feet. Is that a good sign or a bad sign?” 

Sam shrugged. He looked good, Steve thought, in a dark button-down shirt and gray slacks, more dressed up than usual but somehow still cool and casual. When Steve dressed up, he looked ready for a business meeting, or so he’d been told. “I ended up kind of being the DD. Uh, designated driver. None of those other idiots was going to do it, and, well,” he rubbed one hand over his head, “just, I got recognized, a little, so.” 

“Ah,” Steve said, sympathetic. “Didn’t feel like reading headlines about Falcon tearing it up in some bar, huh?” 

“Didn’t feel like hearing Hill’s PR team scream at me, no.” He sighed and undid the top two buttons on his shirt, revealing a thin triangle of white undershirt and a gleaming hollow of skin. “So my buddy Darrell got engaged.” 

“Usually that’s part of why they throw the party.” 

Sam laughed, just once. “Nah, man, the party was for Clay. Darrell, he just told us all tonight. So now I’ve got another bachelor party to hit and two weddings to do this winter.” He sighed and let his head fall back onto the couch. 

“That’s — nice?” Steve said. “You don’t like the girls?” 

“They’re — actually, both guys are marrying up,” he said. “That’s not it. It’s just — marriage. Family. All of that. I feel like, you know, I’ve always thought, OK, one day, I’ll get there, but -“ He made an open gesture with his hands. “They’re all out, doing new stuff now. Clay’s working for a finance company, Darrell’s got a mechanic shop, Joey’s doing some kind of pharmaceutical sales. And I guess that works out. You come home every night.” 

“Not really our thing, is it?” 

“Not really,” Sam said, and he turned and looked at Steve. Steve wondered if they were really talking about Sam’s friends right now. 

“You wishing you had that?” Steve asked. 

“That’s the worst part, I think,” Sam said. “I’m not. I always thought I would, by now, but — I’m more happy doing our thing, in uniform, than I would be behind a desk somewhere. Even at the VA. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t mind getting laid a little more often, but I’m not ready to settle down. Not like that.” 

Steve cleared his throat, then made himself speak before he could chicken out. “I could help you with the getting laid part.” 

Sam blinked, then sat up, shaking his head. “We been dancing around this for a while, huh?” 

“I’m not much of a dancer,” Steve said. “But yeah.” 

The television flickered between the news and a commercial, briefly turning purple-dark, and Steve couldn’t quite find Sam’s eyes. Maybe he didn’t want to. Sam hunched forward, a bit, elbows on his knees as he rubbed one hand over his face. “Look, I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to unload — like, I know I’m just — I know you aren’t, that’s not how you —“ 

“Sam, it’s 2015,” Steve said, Bucky’s words coming straight through like they were meant for this. Maybe they were, because Steve didn’t feel exactly like himself as he said them, even though he could hear they were the right thing to say. “I’ve been around some, OK? I know how things are.” 

“Oh, you do?” he asked, looking back over his shoulder. 

Steve nodded. “I got nothing against casual. You know, we had casual in the 40s.” 

“Maybe some people did,” Sam said, eyes darting from holding Steve’s gaze to looking at his mouth, “but I’m pretty sure you weren’t one of them.” 

“The guy who came out of the ice,” Steve said, licking his lips, “he’s not — I’m not the same. I — what you’re talking about, I’m there, too. None of that stuff fits for me anymore, the home and family stuff.” 

“You just — you really want something casual?” 

“Friendly,” Steve said. 

“I can do friendly,” Sam said, and Steve knew he grinned. He couldn’t stop himself. In the dark, he could only watch Sam’s eyes, and breathe in his warm, gin-sweetened scent, and wait. “I can do a whole lot of friendly, if you’re — if you’re really asking?” 

“I’m _offering_ ,” Steve said, and then Sam kissed him. 

It took Steve maybe two seconds before a giant tidal wave of lust and want slammed into him, pushing any lingering _wait, what_ out of his mind. Then he was kissing back, Sam’s cautious but confident first salvo fading into something deeper and dirtier. Sam broke away but didn’t go far. “Yeah,” Sam said. “That’s what I thought.” 

“Don’t think,” Steve said, and dipped his head to catch Sam’s mouth again. Sam grinned into the kiss and pushed him backwards on the couch. 

“I won’t,” he said.


	14. Chapter 14

Steve was afraid the next morning would be weird. It was, just a little; they woke up in Steve’s bed, naked and a little messy. Or, well, Steve woke up, and then he lay there very quietly, listening to make sure Sam’s breathing was as even and sleepy as possible, and then he carefully stayed still and thought about what had happened the night before. 

He hadn’t been totally honest with Sam, of course. He’d never done casual. Honestly, he’d never done much. Before the ice, there had been Peggy, and after, well, there hadn’t been much time or chance. He’d gone on one date with a girl he’d met at a diner, kissed her standing outside of a pizza restaurant while she stood on her tiptoes and wanted to put her hand in his pocket right there on the street, and he’d told her he wasn’t ready to date after all. That had been pretty honest. He’d spent his next open Saturday reading to Peggy, feeling a hot rush of embarrassment over the escapade even though he knew it was how things happened these days. 

With Sam, though, the lie — that he could do casual — didn’t seem so bad. It wasn’t as though Sam was going to start kissing him in the middle of the street or posting photos to the Internet of what Steve looked like naked. Casual, really — what did it mean? There wasn’t a house in the suburbs, a picket fence, kids, any of that in Steve’s future no matter who he met. Sam already understood that. They were both committed to their jobs — or, well, Sam had a job, and Steve knew he would eventually find a way to dedicate himself to the cause again in equal measure — and that didn’t leave a lot of room for the rest of it. 

So casual would be fine, especially if they could go to bed like this sometimes. 

Steve didn’t have much in the way of sexual experience. Sure, during the war, he’d seen and heard stories, and he was no stranger to jerking off. The most he’d shared with Peggy, however, had been that one kiss. He’d never gone even that far with another man. But he’d pictured it, and he had a strong, practical imagination, the kind that hadn’t let him get away with thinking it would be flowers and soft music and perfection. So the awkwardness the night before hadn’t surprised him. In fact, he’d been relieved that Sam had taken the lead, had been patient and confident, prepared and also tender. No, Steve wouldn’t mind doing this again, and the sooner the better. 

“I can feel you thinking from over here,” Sam said, one hand reaching out and landing low on Steve’s chest. “It doesn’t feel like freaking out, but if it is, go make me some coffee before we really get started.” 

Steve turned on his side. “First of all, I’m not freaking out. Second, you don’t like my coffee.” 

“No,” Sam agreed. “Not really. Depression-era conservation has no place in today’s kitchen, man, and particularly not when you’re making coffee. It’s supposed to be strong. I know you know what strong looks like.” He grinned without ever opening his eyes. “And now I’m pretty sure you’ve got a good idea of what it tastes like, too.” 

Steve laughed, and then, after a second’s pause, leaned in to kiss Sam. Sam’s hand slid over his back, warm and sure, and they just kissed for a minute, Steve’s eyes closed, his pulse picking up, Sam’s hand sliding promisingly down his side to the curve of his ass. “Breakfast?” Sam asked. 

“In a minute,” Steve said, and then slid one leg over Sam’s and lined up their cocks, perfect, rough, and Sam groaned and was smiling, wide-eyed, when Steve finally looked at him. 

When they finally managed to get out of bed, Sam went to his room, naked, grinning and grumbling about being starving and freezing, and Steve staggered up and into his own shower. He felt great, like he should sing while he washed, like the dopey smile on his face was going to give away everything. It didn’t matter, he realized. He’d have to tell Bucky about this — 

Bucky. 

Remembering Bucky somehow sobered him, added a little urgency, and he dried off and pulled his burner phone from his pants pocket before he finished getting dressed. No new messages from Bucky, which probably meant he’d worked all night and just crashed. Usually, Steve didn’t hear from him until at least lunch time, though sometimes it was later. Sometimes, he just got up and went for a walk at 6 and Bucky found him along the way. 

But today, Sam was here, and Steve wasn’t sure if he’d still be around that evening or what that would mean. As he pulled on a fresh T-shirt, though, he knew what his next conversation would need to be. 

“So, you wanna eat here? There’s — everything,” Sam said, staring into the giant fridge. 

Steve nodded, noticing the coffee was already brewing. He grabbed a serving bowl of sliced fruit and several hard boiled eggs, and Sam pulled out a sleeve of English muffins and started dropping them into the toaster. 

“You asked where I’ve been,” Steve said, and Sam nodded, eyes focused on the toaster. “So, a couple days after you guys left, I decided to get out a little, take a walk, see what I could see. And — I got into a cab, at one point, and the driver —“ He laughed, shaking his head, and Sam turned to look at him. “It was Bucky.” 

Sam’s brows drew down. “What?” 

So Steve told him the story, half of it while Sam stood in front of the toaster where their muffins sat, toasted and cooling and ignored. When he finally remembered them and turned around to spread butter, he said, “Look, man, don’t take this the wrong way, but — are you sure?” 

“He’s got a metal arm,” Steve said. “Which I think narrows down the chance of impostors pretty significantly.” 

“Fair point,” Sam said, taking a seat by him. 

“And I’ve spent enough time with him this week that — yeah, I’m sure.” 

Sam nodded. “So, OK. He’s — here. How does he seem?” 

Steve shrugged. “To be honest, I think he might be better adjusted than I am.” 

Sam raised an eyebrow. “We’re setting the bar there, huh?” 

Steve managed half a grin. “He’s got a job, a place to live, maybe a girlfriend or two. He’s been keeping tabs on me, I guess, though I don’t know the full story. Did some therapy. He’s trying to get blueprints on his arm, I think.” 

“That’s why the Hydra raids?” 

“Guess so.” 

Sam slid a cup of coffee over. “Strong, dark, and sweet,” he said. 

“Just like I like my —“ “Do not even,” Sam said, grinning, and Steve laughed, too. “So. Do I get to meet him?” 

“I don’t know.” He glanced at the little burner phone on the counter. “It’s usually, we get together in the late afternoon or evening.” He looked up at Sam, met his eyes. “I haven’t told anyone. Officially.” 

Sam nodded. “Far as I’m concerned, this is personal business, not an Avengers joint.” 

Steve tilted his head, thanks, and looked at the phone again. “I’ll ask him,” he said. “I don’t want — he’s doing fine, but he’s not the kind of guy you want to startle, you know?” 

“Do I know?” Sam said, shaking his head. “Well, so, other than old pal reunions, what do you usually do with your day?” 

“Nothing interesting,” Steve said, and he let himself grin over at Sam in a way that he hoped explained what he wanted to do all day, and Sam laughed. 

“What was your stamina like on the serum?” he asked. 

“Never really had a chance to find out,” Steve admitted, and Sam paused, his coffee halfway to his mouth. 

He recovered quickly and took a drink. “I wondered,” he said. 

“It wasn’t obvious?” 

He lifted one shoulder. “You don’t scream virgin,” he said. “I figured it had been a while, though. I mean, you’re, what, 95?” 

“Sam Wilson, you slept with me and you don’t even know how old I am?” Steve tried not to smile, but he could feel it bubbling up inside, shining through him. “That sounds like a great way to get into trouble.” 

“Oh, I can tell you’re gonna be all kinds of trouble I didn’t expect.” 

Steve grinned. 

* * *

Bucky texted at 4, just a few words: _Falafel cart. Like it this time_. Steve laughed and leaned across the couch to show Sam the message. Sam raised an eyebrow. 

“Did you not like it last time?” 

Steve shrugged. “It was OK. I think maybe I don’t like yogurt.” 

“I’ve seen you eat a quart of —“ 

“No, like, plain yogurt.” He made a face and texted Bucky back, _I’ll try_. Then, after a second, he wrote, _You wanna meet Sam? He got here last night._

Short pause. _You fucking did it, Rogers, I’m so proud I could weep. Bring him along. He’s buying._

This was how they wound up sitting at a picnic table, Bucky in his usual uniform of long-sleeved T-shirt underneath a short-sleeved tee, Sam wearing his own jacket, all of them wearing baseball caps, and Sam saying, “He hates this because there aren’t any vegetables.” 

Steve snapped his fingers. “He’s right. I knew it was missing something.” 

Bucky rolled his eyes. “One roll in the sack and he’s ordering all of your food for you,” he said, shaking his head. “This is a sad state of affairs that I’ve waited about 85 years to witness.” 

“Yeah, just keep reminding me that you’re about as old as America when you put your ages together,” Sam said. “It’s a real turn-on, I’ll tell you. And I’m not saying falafel needs vegetables. I’m saying, you’re feeding a health nut.” 

Bucky looked over at Steve in surprise. “Wait, tell me you don’t drink smoothies.” 

“I don’t —“ 

“He does,” Sam said. 

“Only when they’re handed to me,” Steve said. “In my defense, I hate to see food going to waste.” 

“Any food that ends up in a smoothie is going to waste,” Bucky said. “They take that beautiful fruit and put it in a blender. I don’t even understand.” 

They made it through lunch — Steve did like the cucumber salad that Sam pushed his way — and then ducked into a used bookstore where Bucky knew all of the baristas by name. They settled in on ripped up couches at the back of the science fiction section. They’d never been here before, and Steve thought Bucky was deliberately not inviting Sam back to his place. He understood that, tactically, though he hoped they’d get past that at some point. Then again, Sam was probably flying back to the Avengers facility that night, so maybe there wouldn’t be time for Bucky to get comfortable with him. 

And that was depressing. Steve was going to totally suck at the casual thing. 

Sam stood up to take a phone call at one point, and Bucky eyed him until he was out of the room. Steve had already noticed there were at least two other likely exits to this building, and he imagined Bucky knew even more and better ways to escape. Sam wouldn’t rat them out on purpose, he thought, but Steve also hadn’t though to make him leave his phone behind. Great, he was already blinded by… whatever this was, making little mistakes. 

It was weird; he’d thought having Bucky meet Sam would somehow make him feel better, like the two sides of his life were finally intersecting. Instead, it felt like all of his problems had magically become visible: Bucky, no matter how normal he seemed, was actually a wanted assassin; Sam was an Avenger; and Steve was washed up somewhere between the two of them, no real use to either one. 

“Uh-oh. Earth to Rogers,” Bucky said, nudging his half-empty coffee cup. “You can’t have buyer’s remorse already.” 

“What?” 

Bucky nodded toward the door Sam had walked through. “He’s all right.” 

Steve managed half a smile. “Yeah,” he agreed. “More all right than me.” 

Bucky shrugged one shoulder. “If you’re trying to match crazy with someone, you ain’t gonna find a match worth making,” he said. “Take that from an expect.” 

Steve laughed at that. “I’d settle for —“ he started, but Sam rushed back in, his steps so heavy that Steve looked up immediately. 

“I got a problem,” he said, and looked at Bucky. “Think I might need your help. Both of you.” 

They set out for Stark Tower on foot, Sam leading and explaining as they went. His call had been from the facility. Actually, his call had been from a robotic voice on the other end of a number registered to a country that didn’t really exist. It was one of about a dozen security trip-wires Natasha had established for everyone on the team. If they had trouble at the facility, a two-digit text to the right number would alert all of the Avengers. 

“It was the house call message,” Sam said, voice grim, and Steve’s stomach turned. That meant intruders. 

“You think Balko?” 

“I think his big baddies meeting must have decided to find a new location, yeah,” he said. 

“So — you think this Balko guy who wants to kill Steve has taken over your super-secret upstate Avengers facility?” Bucky said, and Sam looked at Steve. 

“I didn’t tell him,” Steve said, shrugging, and Bucky nodded. 

“That’s true enough. Don’t you guys have significant security there? I mean, you’re plenty dumb, but you’re not that dumb.” 

Steve thought for a moment. “Fury’s chasing this fake meeting, right? Who’d he take?” 

“It’s supposed to be in Mexico. Natasha, Wanda, and Vision and a strike team. Maybe Lang.” 

“That leaves Rhodes at the facility if Sam’s here and I’m… here, too,” Steve said. “So they’ve got War Machine and a strike team. And Banner. Oh,” he said, suddenly really worried. Banner might be a real asset, but he could also wreak a lot of havoc. “Uh, there’s also all the regular staff, medical people, service employees.” 

“So lots of hostages,” Bucky said, and nodded. “This guy knows how to bait you, I’ll give him that.” 

Bucky had never been within five blocks of Stark Tower before, but by the time they reached that perimeter, he was saying, “If you can get me a long-range scope —“ 

“Stark’s got a basement full of that stuff,” Steve said. 

“The problem’s going to be keeping the element of surprise,” Sam said. 

Bucky grinned and crossed the street. “That’s never really been a strong suit for either of us,” he said. 

* * *

They raised Stark as soon as they were inside, and he said he needed an hour to organize the West Coast team and another five hours, minimum, to be in range of the facility. “Well, I’m not, technically, in the country,” he said, and also mentioned he’d need to put the team on a plane. Never once did he say he wasn’t coming, and Steve appreciated that. They tried to conference in Fury, but they had no response from any of his usual contact channels, which worried Steve. 

“Best case is they’re just jamming the signals,” Stark said, “and we track them in stealth, anyway. If they flew into a trap, they’re probably just being quiet getting out of it.” 

“Even if they’re on their way back right now, that’s at least eight hours,” Sam said. 

“And if Rhodes sent the emergency beacon, that’s all hands, ASAP,” Steve said. “So I guess we’re goin’ up. We’ll send you any recon we can, Tony, but if we can get inside, that’s what we’re gonna do.” 

“Take whatever you need from the basement,” Stark said. “I’ll see you there in five.” 

Stark’s “basement” was actually the 85th floor of the tower, the level just below the common area where he kept the robotics workshop and all of the team’s gear. Steve had a small closet there from when it had been the Avengers’ tower, and it had a few slightly older model Captain America suits still hanging up. Sam had brought his wings and the shield along from the facility. “Don’t leave home without ‘em,” he said, which made Bucky laugh. 

They piled up the gear they thought they’d need, loaded it into the plane, then started getting ready themselves. As Steve changed into the uniform, Sam leaned in the closet doorway. 

“I’m about to get a lecture, huh?” Steve said, sliding his arms into the sleeves. They hadn’t yet addressed the fact that Steve, fresh off of being relieved of all field duty and command responsibility, was now suiting up for a charge into danger and mayhem. God, it felt good. 

“Nope,” Sam said. “I’m gonna figure you know your limits.” He stepped in closer to help Steve buckle the support clasps at his wrists. “I just have two requests.” Steve nodded. Sam was already in his fatigues; in the background, Bucky was clanging around, fitting together pieces of a torn up uniform with other tech he’d found laying around. “Take the shield back,” Sam said, eye focused on the top button at Steve’s throat. He smelled great. 

“You don’t want it?” 

“I do,” Sam said, “and I’ve got every intention of getting back to it someday, when you take a well-deserved vacation, but right now I’m armed with wings and machine guns and you’ve got an inhaler and your charm, so let’s call this a strategic decision.” He looked up, and Steve managed a smile. 

“I’ve got a little more than that,” he said, and Sam smiled, too, just a little. “OK. Won’t turn down the shield. I feel a little naked without it, anyway.” 

“Mm-hm.” Sam was still standing close, his hands on Steve’s shoulders, thumbs dipped down to the cross braces over Steve’s collarbones. He shouldn’t have been able to feel the heat of Sam’s touch through the suit, but he swore he could. 

“Second request?” Steve asked. 

“Don’t die,” Sam said, voice flat and level. Steve looked right into Sam’s eyes, saw how serious Sam was, how he was maybe even a little afraid, and he swallowed hard. 

“I wanna vote for that, too,” Bucky said from somewhere over Steve’s shoulder, and Steve frowned even as Sam smiled. 

“It’s not part of my plan,” Steve said, and Sam raised an eyebrow. 

“‘Course it is,” Bucky said, and Steve moved reluctantly back from Sam so he could face them both. “You never went into a battle without thinking you might not get out at the end. It’s a mindset. I get it,” he said, too casually, Steve thought. 

“The odds aren’t great,” Steve admitted. 

“Lemme hear your plan.” 

“Well, we’ve got civilians.” Steve thought of the nurses in the med pod, the pale computer techs in the main office, Lita and her staff in the kitchens. “He wants me, so —“ 

“So Bucky and I do evac while you distract Balko, huh? Yeah, that’s not gonna fly,” Sam said. “That guy doesn’t want to talk with you. He wants to kill you. Probably wouldn’t mind messing you up pretty bad along the way.” 

“Guys, I’m not gonna just walk in and surrender.” Steve watched the glance between Sam and Bucky with growing alarm. In any other situation, this would be like a fantasy brought to life, standing there with his best friend and his new best friend, seeing how well they got along. Today, it was already damned annoying. 

“Nah,” Bucky said, “you’ll probably try to fight him hand-to-hand and get your ass kicked.” 

“So I’m saying, let’s find a plan where that’s not our cornerstone,” Sam said. “Steve, if you’re just going up there to get killed, I’ll tie your ass to Tony’s kitchen counter before I head back on my own.” 

“Kinky,” Bucky said, and Steve couldn’t help it, he blushed. “He’s got a point. I don’t wanna go along if I’m gonna bring you home in a body bag.” 

“Why are you going along, anyway?” Steve asked, genuinely curious. 

Bucky shrugged. “‘Cuz I don’t go, you’re definitely coming home dead. No offense, man, but this guy Balko’s heavier artillery than one bird can take down.” 

“None taken,” Sam said. “So now that we’re clear, you in, Cap? Or you need to sit this one out?” 

“I don’t really like you two ganging up on me.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Sam said, nodding, face never wavering from serious. 

“Fine,” Steve said. “I’ll consider it a mission objective, all right? Come home alive.” 

“Good,” Sam said, and it surprised Steve to see real relief in his features. “Now let’s get a plan together that makes that possible.” 

On the plane, Bucky said, “You know, if all it took was getting laid to make you straighten up, I would’ve made that happen in ’42. Saved us all some trouble.” 

Steve raised an eyebrow, looking up from where he’d been fitting a couple of electronic transmitters into his arm band. “Oh yeah? With who?” 

“If it would’ve stopped you from bein’ an idiot, I probably would’ve done it myself,” Bucky said, and Steve set the electronic pieces down very carefully, feeling a little wash of vertigo that had nothing to do with the plane. Bucky laughed, bright, heavy laughter right from the belly. “Oh, Jesus, your face. I’m not saying I would’ve enjoyed it —“ 

“Fuck you,” Steve said, laughing, a huge breath whooshing out of him. “You sick little-“ 

“Uh-huh, uh-huh. It’s good, though,” Bucky said, glancing up at the front of the plane where Sam was piloting and, Steve prayed, not listening to a single bar of this conversation. “I been tryin’ to get you to sit your ass down when you’re outmatched since forever.” 

“You think we’re pretty outmatched, huh?” 

“If you don’t, we better check you for head trauma,” Bucky said. “Did I hear him right you don’t even have a gun in that get-up?” 

Steve rolled his eyes. “I bet I can pick something up when we get there.” 

Their plan was pretty simple. They’d land the plane in the nearest town, just on the edge; the facility had radar for approaching planes, but no alarms sounded unless they were within a mile. So they’d land, procure a vehicle, and drive to the edge of the forest that surrounded the facility grounds. Then, they’d hike up near the lake and try to sneak into the building through the side entrance in Banner’s lab. Sam would give them an aerial view, and a drone they’d found in Stark’s basement would provide a needed distraction. 

They’d have to rely on the same team strength with the agents inside that had helped during the Triskelion disaster. Steve would do his best to rally the troops and draw Balko out without actually engaging with the man, while Bucky used the opportunity to get eyes, and then bullets, on as many bad guys as possible. 

It was a terrible plan, and Steve could see a hundred ways it could go wrong, but it was also the only chance they had. If all else failed, he really only needed to stall them for long enough that Stark and his West Coast team, with an additional strike force, would show up to engage, probably trailing Fury, Natasha, and Vision. 

The first hurdle, unfortunately, was going to be the hike. 

Steve armed himself with the inhaler and then slipped on a paper mask as they approached the treeline. He’d save the cowl for when they got inside. Bucky said, “Hope you brought a book to read or something, case we have to leave you behind, Cap.” 

“Shut up and march, soldier,” he said, and Bucky threw off a funny salute before crashing into the underbrush. 

Sam gave Steve a longer look, then gestured he should go ahead. 

They’d trained in the forest enough for Steve to recognize its scents and sounds. It should have been comforting, to be back on his home turf, but he couldn’t think much past following Bucky’s trail. Sam was lugging a cart of equipment they might need, while Bucky had a towering, heavy pack on his back. They’d given Steve a smaller pack, Sam eyeing him the whole time as though he might object, but Steve wasn’t an idiot. He knew this was going to be hard, and he needed to be useful at the end of the hike. Even a few hundred yards in, he was already grateful that he didn’t have to lug the disassembled rifles or communications block that the others had. 

They paused about a half mile into the walk, as planned, to try and set up a communications beacon. Rhodes would have set off every emergency protocol, and Friday — assuming any tiny piece of the computer system was still online — would be scanning frantically for friendly communication. So they set up a tall, silver pole that Sam assured them had futuristic comms capabilities, and then they waited, watching a black screen on Sam’s connected mobile phone. 

“Nothing?” Steve asked, after sixty seconds or so. 

“Give it a minute.” Sam tweaked a connection, briefly, then looked at the screen again. After a few seconds, a range of green lines began to dance across their view. “There she is,” he said, smiling, and he brought up an on-screen keyboard. Steve glanced at Bucky, who was re-adjusting the load in his pack. 

“Sit, Steve,” Bucky said. “If he’s gonna chat with the computer, you should take a break, too.” 

So he did, leaning against one of the tall trees. The green glow of the afternoon was already fading into the purple-blue of dusk. They wouldn’t make it to the facility until after dark. Leaves fluttered around them, but the forest was otherwise silent and cool. Steve was glad for the cooler temperature; it made breathing easier, though he had to remind himself not to take any big draws of the luscious forest air. The mask itched faintly against his cheek. 

“OK," Sam said after a few minutes, squatting next to Steve. “Rhodes and Banner and about sixty hostages are in the main hall. Rhodes is unconscious and Banner’s surrounded by civilians. There’s a pretty big stack of explosive in there, too.” 

“Geez,” Steve said, wondering why Sam sounded upbeat. 

“Lang made it out undetected. He’s gonna meet us at the south point by the lake.” 

“Lang?” Bucky asked. 

“Oh man, is that a long story,” Steve said, “but, uh, basically, he’s the Ant-man.” 

He expected Bucky to laugh, but instead, his gaze turned flat and cold. He said, “I didn’t think he’d still be around. Wait. Pym?” 

“No,” Steve said. “Next generation.” 

Bucky nodded, and his eyes refocused. “Good. That’s a helpful skill set.” 

“And only sixty hostages?” Steve said. “Is everyone else — where is everyone else?” “Evacuated to the underground bunker,” Sam said. “Friday got the alarms going, and it sounds like most of the tech is locked down, too. So Rhodes and Banner, that’s the bad news, but the good news is we’re really just facing 10, maybe a dozen guys with only the weapons they came with. Not our own stuff. And Friday can shut down any of the computer systems when we need them.” 

“Twelve guys,” Steve mused. “Wonder what happened to Rhodes?” 

“My money says he’s faking,” Sam said, “but I think we ought to go find out in person.” 

It took them about forty-five minutes to get to the south point of the lake. Steve knew Sam and Bucky could have covered it faster; hell, a month ago, he probably could have done it in fifteen, but they made it with no major asthma incidents and only one rest break. Sam had used that time to get the drone up and scanning, so really, it hadn’t been much of a waste. 

When Scott Lang exploded into full size, Bucky took a single step backwards, his hand sliding to the knife at his belt, but he otherwise didn’t react. Steve held out a gloved hand, feeling self conscious about the mask over his face. “Scott, glad to see you.” 

“Captain,” Lang said, then slapped hands with Sam. “Falcon.” 

“The Ant-Man,” Sam said, grinning and shaking his head. “What do you know?” 

He gave them a run-down that confirmed nearly everything the computer had told them, except that he’d been around for Rhodes’s capture. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” he said. “They had a spray gun of some kind of stuff — it froze his suit. Totally wrecked it.” 

“Adhesive X,” Steve said, looking at his gloved hands. “Well, so that sprayer is one of the weapons on hand.” 

Lang nodded. “I don’t care what you call it, but the stuff is potent. It looked like the bond was molecular. I checked on Rhodes, though, and he’s out but alive.” 

“That’s something,” Sam said. “All right. Let’s talk plans.” 

They fit Lang in as neatly as possible, and a few minutes later, Sam was flying off to start a distraction, Lang shrunken and clinging to his pack. The drone was circling in an automated pattern, rattling the windows and, they hoped, making Balko nervous enough to divert at least one of his goons. The other ten or so would be up for Steve and Bucky to take on directly. 

“This is so stupid,” Bucky said, ratcheting his rifle. 

“Like old times,” Steve agreed, and they scrambled across the dirt toward the building. The lab door already hung open, and Bucky gave Steve a quick glance, _Trap_ clear on his face, and Steve shrugged, nodded, and led the charge inside. 

Natasha was waiting, arms crossed, already in full tactical gear. She glanced between them, raised one surprised eyebrow when Bucky lowered his gun, then said, “Recruiting, are we?” 

Steve stood from his crouch and pulled off his paper mask. “Where did you come from?” 

“North track,” she said. “Landed an hour ago in town.” 

“Vision?” 

She shook her head. “Still in Mexico with Fury. Figured I could handle this one.” She grinned. “Won’t mind the company, though.” 

The building was strangely silent around them, which made Steve’s rushing breath echo louder. Natasha gave him a quick up and down, then said, “What’s the plan?” 

His plan had been to head straight for the main hall, eliminating obstacles as he went in order to clear a path for the hostages to escape, before breaking off into one of the meeting rooms to broadcast a message. Now that Natasha was there, though, they could use her strengths instead. “Well, now that you’re here, let’s change it up a bit,” Steve said. “Can you get me a camera on the main hall?” 

Things started happening fast after that. Once Steve gave the order to engage, Sam wiped out the perimeter guards and came through the roof door to secure the hangar. He took almost no fire — possibly because he traveled so smoothly. Lang managed to distract the guards around Banner long enough that he could get a whole crew of them safely out the door and into the woods, himself included. The guards who gave chase fell quickly under Bucky’s efficient targeting. 

Natasha brought the computers online slowly but surely, giving them access to a full building sweep well before they’d anticipated having the information. That also included vital statistics on Rhodes, who was stable but still unconscious. That became Steve’s mission. 

“Uh-uh,” Bucky said, when he started to leave on his own, and Steve said, “Then come on.” 

Their path to the atrium was nearly empty, and that felt strange. Most of the weapons left were either heavy explosives or the glue guns, as Natasha called them, which Lang had seen spraying Adhesive X around. 

“So guess what can shatter that super glue?” Natasha said over the comms link. 

“Steve’s icy glare of righteousness?” Bucky said, and Steve thought he heard Sam snort. 

“Vibranium,” she said. “Give ‘em hell, Cap.” 

Bucky cleared the door, icing everything that moved, and then Steve ducked in and started knocking down weapons. He was happy to pound out the glue-sprayers like so many pinball targets; he corrected for the weight of the shield and his own lack of strength easily, this time, maybe because he was focused on the battle before him. It felt good. 

It also felt like not much of a battle. By the time he reached the center of the floor, Rhodes was stirring, and Steve used a few quick jabs to free him from the mangled suit while the rest of Balko’s crew tried to run and hide. Bucky threw an electrical dart at two men careening for the corner; one crumpled, and the other fell and hunched, two feet from Steve. 

“Talk,” Steve said, voice gruff, and he could practically see the guy giving up. 

“He’s gone, he left us, he’s not even here,” the man said, voice thin and high with panic. “I’ll tell you everything. I don’t know anything, but I’ll — I’m so sorry, I didn’t think anyone would get hurt, you’re _Captain America_ , I can’t _believe_ it —“ 

Bucky stunned the guy, then looked at Steve. “Does that happen a lot?” Steve shrugged. “That’s disgusting,” he said, but with some wonder, and Steve rolled his eyes. 

They did round up the whole of Balko’s crew, but the man himself wasn’t among them. Their cameras showed that Balko himself, along with the elite team that had really been responsible for taking over the facility, had left just after Rhodes’s capture and just before the rest of the Avengers had arrived. Apparently, Balko and his team had taken a cache of computer files with them, and that was the kind of discouraging news that meant Fury would be in residence for a week, scowling and sighing. Steve wasn’t happy to hear about it, either, and not only because he didn’t like to think the mastermind of this break-in was still out there. The specific records he’d stolen pertained largely to Steve himself, which meant that by now, Balko had figured out his “impostor” had been the real thing. If they met again, Steve would get no second chances. 

Neither, he decided, looking at a long line of terrified kitchen workers climbing slowly from the basement bunker, would Balko. 

The best news of an otherwise bad day was that Steve made it through without an asthma attack. Sure, he was exhausted, and he had to use the inhaler with enough frequency that he knew he’d probably be due, but he’d managed to lead his team, clear the building, and survive. 

“Yeah, don’t let it go to your head,” Bucky said as they rode up in the elevator that evening. Sam was shaking his head and smiling. “You manage to not get yourself killed in _one_ battle, it’s a habit. Right.” 

“I’m turning over some new leaves,” Steve said, but he grinned, too. 

“That’s why you look ready to pass out," Sam said, dropping a steady hand on his shoulder. Steve took a deep breath, ready to protest, to say he was fine, but — something stopped him. It was OK. They’d all seen him at his weakest, and they still wanted him there. They still needed him, somehow. 

So Steve just said, “Yeah, might be,” and Sam squeezed his shoulder. 

“Get some rest. Wake your sleepover buddy if you need something, all right?” 

He turned to unlock his door, and Bucky made some kind of desperate hand-to-mouth gesture that Steve really didn’t understand. “What, are you hungry?” he asked, and Bucky sighed and threw up his hands. 

“Night, Sam,” he said, and Sam just waved and walked into his own place. 

“You helped save the lives of a couple hundred civilians today,” Bucky said as they walked in, probably because Steve was still looking at him like some kind of alien. “You _deserve_ to get laid. Hell, I deserve it, but I’m willing to just live vicariously for one night.” 

Steve huffed a laugh and filled a glass in the kitchen. “The only laying happening for me tonight is lying down in my bed. I’m wiped, Buck.” 

Bucky looked over. “Yeah. You must be, you’re admitting it. But that’s good.” He glanced around, and a hysterical feeling — laughter, tears, Steve couldn’t separate them — bubbled through Steve’s chest because Bucky was standing in his living room. Alive. Smirking. He rubbed one hand over his face and leaned against his kitchen counter, not sure he could stand without support. “This place is OK,” Bucky said after a moment, metal fingers picking at the fabric of the arm chair. “Little empty.” 

“You stick around, you can help me decorate,” Steve said, and Bucky grinned, poking the chair. “The couch is all yours. And, uh, whatever from the fridge.” Bucky nodded his thanks. 

“See you in the morning,” he said, and Steve couldn’t help the smile. Just that promise: he’d still be there. It meant everything. 

“Yeah,” Steve said, hoping Bucky would chalk up the roughness of his voice to the fight that day. “See you then.” 

* * *

They spent the next several days working through exactly what had happened. It boiled down to an inside job. The high-tech scanners they’d been so proud of hadn’t managed to pick up the delivery of a tiny technical reader — well, actually, it had picked it up, but they’d thought all these months that it had simply been detecting the forgery of an expensive handbag. The reader embedded in that false logo had included a passive tracker that had, at the right moment, alerted Balko and crew to the relative emptiness of the building along with a few easy ways to hack around their scanners. They’d been depending on the secrecy of the facility to act as their first line of defense; now, they would need to assume that all of their enemies knew exactly where to find them, and they’d need to cloak the building in better guard technology. They’d also need to improve their hiring screening, which would be a nightmare. 

Stark and the West Coast team had arrived just in time for clean-up, but that worked out all right. It gave Steve a chance to actually meet the folks who might be his back-up squad in the future, and they mostly took well to following his orders about the reorganization. They also all seemed surprised and maybe a little excited to be shown up to quarters after the clean-up was finished. He could work with them, he figured. 

Having Stark around to fix the flaws in the security software was a bonus, even if sometimes having Stark on campus made Steve want to nap a little longer every afternoon. 

Bucky hung around, too. That surprised Steve, who had assumed he’d cut out at the first opportunity. Instead, he just stayed out of the way, playing polite soldier friend at Steve’s side while he tried to coordinate clean-up efforts and security reviews. He slept in Steve’s quarters on the couch, and on the third day, when the clean-up was finished enough that it wouldn’t dominate Steve’s schedule, Bucky said, “So either you gotta take me back to the city today, or I guess I’m gonna meet your boss, huh?” 

“I don’t really have a boss,” Steve said, shrugging, standing in his kitchen in his pajama pants and an undershirt. Bucky was fully dressed and staring out the window. “Buck? What are you thinkin’?” 

“Dunno,” he said. He sighed. “I got a pretty good thing goin’ in the city. Real normal. I don’t wake up much at night anymore. Don’t look over my shoulder too much. No one recognizes me.” He flashed Steve a smile. “Well. No one recognizes me in a bad way.” 

“You can go back,” Steve said, walking halfway across the room before he stopped at the edge of his table. “I could — I can visit you, or —“ 

Bucky shook his head. “I don’t think I really can,” he said. “Not after this. Not if — not if you got a place for me here, I guess.” 

“I, yeah,” Steve said, trying to tamp down the eagerness in his voice because he could see this was costing Bucky something. “Yeah, I think I could make room at the table.” 

“All right,” he said, then he stretched. “Better get me my own room, too. Last thing I want is getting woken up at night when you sneak your pal in.” 

“Bucky,” Steve said, and he rolled his eyes, but he was blushing. “All right. Next door’s open, you want that?” 

“Convenient,” Bucky said. “Suits me.” He touched the glass window, then, and said, “Listen, Steve. There’s gonna be some things — I think, you’re gonna find out some things about me.” 

“I was looking for you for a year,” Steve said. “If you think I don’t already know about that stuff, you’re nuts.” 

“You’ll find that out about me, too,” he said, his hand dropping. “All right. If he hasn’t arrested me already, I guess that means Mr. Not-your-boss isn’t gonna, huh?” 

“You did try to kill him,” Steve said, “but I think he’s gonna like you, in the end.” 

Steve hadn’t met with Fury, formally, since his relief at the Tower. Since the Balko debacle, they had conferenced several times a day on the status of security review and repairs, and Fury had yet to say a word about whether Steve had the authority to be bossing everyone around. Steve thought it might be a conversation they had to have later and in person. 

He was wrong. “Glad to have you back, Cap,” Fury greeted him at their first in-person threat assessment since Balko’s break-in. “Apparently, you leave for a few days, the whole place goes to hell.” 

Natasha made a face that was the best visual expression of cursing Steve had ever seen. 

“I should’ve caught this before. And anyway, we’re gonna get hit again,” Steve said, taking a seat at Fury’s conference table. “So I figured we’d better start planning for that.” 

“Agreed,” Fury said, clicking the table and bringing up a giant diagram of the facility. “So let’s walk back through what exactly this guy took and what he’s still looking for.” 

That meeting stretched to three hours once Steve introduced the idea of bringing Bucky in to the team. He wasn’t suggesting he join the Avengers, not yet: Bucky wasn’t ready for that level of publicity or responsibility, and Steve didn’t think anyone should go on the team without some substantial training and evaluation. However, having Bucky around as a training partner and occasional participant in Hydra-related raids seemed like a good idea and one that, finally, Steve brought the whole team around to. 

In fact, only Sam and Vision seemed to have reservations, in the end. Vision had logical problems: he’d run probabilities based on the available information about the Winter Soldier and found it highly unlikely that Hydra hadn’t implanted some kind of tracking device, and possibly some weapons, in Bucky’s metal arm, if not his mind. They all agreed that further evaluation would be necessary, though the team kindly left that to Steve to address with Bucky. 

Sam’s reservations were better and, because they were thoughtful, worse. “I don’t know if this guy wants to be on our team,” he said. “Look, I think — we’re all here because we want to be. It’s a hard enough job when you like everyone and believe in the mission.” He looked up, right at Steve, and Steve wanted to look away. His stomach turned. “I don’t know what he believes in anymore. In his place, I think I’d believe in just about jack shit,” Sam said. “And that makes complete sense, but it also makes him somebody it’s hard to lean on in a fight.” Sam looked down at his hands. “I’m not saying no. But I’m saying — this has got to be something he wants, not something you, we, pull him into because it becomes his only choice.” 

“He has choices,” Steve said. 

Natasha shook her head. “He won’t if he stays with us long enough.” 

Banner said, “Well, for now, see if he’ll come talk with me about the arm. No need to borrow the long-term psychological damage trouble yet if he’s got a beacon beaming our whereabouts to Hydra. Though — I guess, if Balko’s been here —“ 

“Yeah,” Steve said, rubbing his forehead. “Well, we were never gonna stay secret for long.” 

After everyone filed out, Steve waited and talked with Fury for a few minutes. “I’m still gonna expect you to keep up with the work you’re doing,” Fury said. “With the med staff and with Garner.” 

“Noted,” Steve said. “And I’m gonna expect to get dealt in on whatever’s coming up that might engage the team.” 

“So I’m seeing you twice a day, you’re saying,” Fury said, and Steve realized he meant the dreaded Morning Brief. 

“Every day,” Steve confirmed. 

“Good,” Fury said, and his eyes twinkled. “Maybe we’ll even loop the real director in one of these days.” 

“Right.” 

Steve left, already wondering whether to bring Bucky down for team lunch or whether it would be better to just meet him up on their floor. The answer was settled for him when he saw Bucky already sitting at the lunch table, eating a sandwich and having what looked like a pretty intense discussion with Banner. He paused to watch from outside, and he was standing there when Sam walked over. 

“About that," Sam said, nodding in at where Bucky was shaking his head while Bruce grinned. “I didn’t mean to make you think I was questioning his motives. I mean, I think I like the guy.” 

“I know,” Steve said. “You’re looking out for him, and the team.” 

“And you," Sam said, voice a little softer. “He’s your best friend. I get you want him here.” 

“I do,” Steve said. “But — I want, it’s more important where he wants to be. I forget, sometimes, that just because I don’t have a choice anymore, it doesn’t mean anyone else is as locked in.” He tried to slide Sam a smile, but it didn’t quite work. 

Sam rested his hand on Steve’s shoulder. “I think we’re all pretty locked in,” he said. “Pretty hard to go back to a day job after this.” 

Steve laughed, and Bucky looked up, then, and wagged his eyebrows at him. He opened the door to hear him saying, “and there are ladies present, Rogers, so you better clean up your act.” 

“My act is cleaner than your mother’s floors ever were,” Steve said, and Bucky laughed, big and surprised, and Steve knew there would be payback. 

There would be so much payback. He knew something was going to go wrong. Things were going to get harder. He still didn’t have his strength back; he’d have to work twice as hard to earn the team’s trust; he had no idea what was going to happen between him and Sam; and his best friend was the most efficient killer he’d ever worked with and against. But right now, standing with everyone in the sunlit dining room, tossing barbs back and forth, Steve felt relief like it was gravity, like he was finally held to earth by something good and solid trustworthy. Right now, things were OK. Maybe it could all work out after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End! Ah, but, you know, there's a sequel, once I get my act together. Can't leave Cap without his Cap-ness for too long. :) Thanks for reading/liking/commenting/staring silently/whatever.


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